He Calls Me Pigeon
by SlytherinPride2292
Summary: (Sequel to Penguin's Weakness). Sylvia Gordon survived a gunshot to the neck and that's not the worst traumatic experience she will live to endure. Oswald and Sylvia's relationship grows stronger, and Jim starts dating Lee Thompkins. Rated M for content.
1. Stay With Us

Chapter 1: Stay With Us

A/N: Welcome to my second installment of _Penguin's Weakness_. I have to apologize for leaving you lovely readers with such a big cliffhanger but honestly, I couldn't help myself. Anyway, here's the first chapter!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters besides those that don't seem recognizable (Mike, Billy the Chef, etc….) and my OC is Sylvia Gordon. All the main plots of _Gotham_ belong to the _Gotham_ writers. I have subplots throughout the original plotline. No profit is being made from this, and this story is purely based on fiction. Cheers!

"We need to get….to the ICU….make….turn this way…."

A female's voice came in and out, like I was being pulled out of the water, only to be shoved back under the rolling, garbled depths once more. Metaphorically, of course.

I could open my eyes a little, but the effort to do so was a lot of work. My body was limp. I tried moving my arms, to wiggle my fingers, but nothing happened. I tried moving my toes— _wiggle toes, come on!_ —but they refused to obey.

"Drive faster…."

 _Jim._

I could hear his voice; I felt him moving on my right, sitting in the ambulance with me.

"Stay with me, Sylvia…. _with me_ …." he said, his voice muffled and echoing.

Looking at him, I could see the worried lines creased on his forehead, his blue eyes, which bore the same resemblance to mine, watching me. He was holding my hand firmly, and the other touched my shoulder.

What was happening to me?

Was I dying?

I tried turning my head to get a grasp of all that was happening around me….but I couldn't. I was incapacitated. A neck brace kept my head still, just as the drugs being pumped through the needle in my arm made my body limp. Dead weight.

I heard the steady purr of an engine, and the siren sounds of the ambulance, but it was muffled too. I forced my eyes open, fighting the urge to fall asleep. I couldn't fall asleep—I had to know what was happening. If I closed my eyes, I was certain I wouldn't wake up.

I felt a hand on my thigh, it was soft and light. Glancing down, however, I saw that it was gripping, my clothes wrinkled with the pressure.

 _These_ _a_ _mbulance people really know how to kick up the morphine._

I followed the pale hand to a well-suited figure and saw that it was Oswald Cobblepot who occupied my left-hand side. Raven hair, cerulean eyes looking at me with just as much worry as Jim. He saw that I was awake, or trying to stay that way. He spoke but like the rest of the voices in the ambulance, his words were muffled, garbled noises to my ears. I tried to speak, but even as my mouth moved, it just barely did so. It, too, felt like dead weight, detached from my body.

"It's okay, pigeon…." Oswald said with an attempt of comfort—but his voice shook, and I could see his true emotions so clearly written on his face. Fear and worry. I glanced between him and James Gordon, my older brother. They were saying more to me, their voices firm, but soothing.

The numbness in my brain was stretching out, creeping towards my forehead, down to my nose and mouth. I couldn't keep my eyes open.

When they closed, Jim was shouting. Then Oswald was too….were they shouting at each other? Or at the drivers of the ambulance?…..

 _So tired….so…._

"Lift her on the stretcher on one—three….two…. _one_!"

Two men dressed in white lab jackets grabbed the top and bottom of my cot and hoisted me on a metal gurney. They spoke in medical jargon for the better part, which only confused me. The stretcher was being followed by two men—Jim was barking orders at his police officers to do something while Oswald ignored everyone else and quickly, to the best of his ability, kept up with the stretcher.

I tried to talk, to tell him I would be okay. But nothing came out. I couldn't even make out even a syllable. And my arms couldn't even move to hold my hands out to him.

Men and women dressed in seal blue scrubs hurried to the stretcher, swinging open double doors. The intercom garbled 'code blue'. Why did I get the feeling that _I_ was that code blue? My eyes were getting heavy….

 _Don't close them. Don't you fucking dare. Come on, Sylvia…._

More medical jargon exchanged between what looked like fifty people in the room—then again, my vision was doubling, even tripling the true count. I started panicking, seeing the hard, stern expressions of what I assumed to be the doctor as he made cynical comments about bullets and the morality rate of one being able to survive.

My panic caused a ripple of extra maneuvers from the nurses around me. Their eyes darting to the machine that calculated my heart rate and blood pressure before rushing around like chickens with their heads cut off.

"Miss Gordon….Miss Gordon!"

I looked up at the ceiling. Blocking my view was the doctor.

Salt-and-pepper hair, medium build….I think he was wearing glasses….maybe?

"We're going to get you fixed….up, we're going to make you….better, can you hear me?"

I narrowed my eyes, trying to understand him. Or at least to read his lips.

"Can you hear me?" He said loudly.

The morphine….so numbing, so powerful. I couldn't….

Ten minutes passed—or maybe five hours—I couldn't be sure.

"One more shock should do it—everyone stand clear!"

Two metal pads connected to a defibrillator hissed and a nurse held them above my chest.

 _Oh fuck, they're going to shock me….WAIT! I'm AWAKE!_

I mumbled loudly, "mm-mm!" and I was certain they hadn't heard but the doctor, like a saint, saw my eyes open just a little and despite the breathing tube down my esophagus, I successfully caught the doc's attention. He quickly pushed the nurse away.

" _She's back!"_ The doc shouted. "Don't shock her—Miss Gordon….Sylvia!"

"MM!" I barely managed.

"Good, thank god..." sighed the doctor. "We're fixing you up, Miss Gordon. Don't you worry. For the rest of the procedure, we'll need you unconscious. This will only hurt a little…."

He brought out a syringe and plunged it into my arm. I protested as much as possible and back to the unconscious side I went.

 _Tired….sleepy….just a few more minutes,_ I thought. _A few more minutes, please. Then I will get up._


	2. I Missed A Lot

Chapter Two: I Missed A Lot

* * *

Peppermint. Vanilla.

It was an odd combination of fragrances. But I recognized it as my hand lotion. Why did I smell...

 _Oh right…._

Putting two-and-two together, I figured I was in a hospital.

 _That explains the disinfectant smells._

I listened to the sounds around before opening my eyes: a woman on the intercom announcing codes varying from emergencies like a code blue to those of irrelevancy such as those instructing hospital staff and visitors to ignore incoming fire drills due to maintenance operations; the slow but hypnotic beeping of my heart rate monitor; the dialogue of a strange soap opera set on a low volume from the television in my room (or I could only guess). And I heard humming—wait….no, it was singing.

" _The fire has gone out_

 _Wet from snow above_

 _But nothing will warm me more_

 _Than my, my mother's love._

 _I light another candle_

 _Dry the tears from my face_

 _Nothing can protect me more than my mother's warm embrace_

 _The path ahead is dark_

 _So dark I cannot see_

 _But I will not fear_

 _'cause my mother looks over me._ _"_

I opened my eyes slowly, squinting when the fluorescent lights above dared to blind me. There were eucalyptus plants in the corners of my room—well, that explained _that_ other smell. I felt something massaging my hand. As my vision cleared, I saw that it was Gertrude, Oswald's mother. She wore an alabaster-white dress from what appeared to be the late 1950's but she certainly pulled it off in a fashion, and her silver curls were pulled back in a bun. She appeared preoccupied with the singing—my, she had a lovely set of pipes. She was rubbing the peppermint-vanilla scented lotion from my apartment on my hand.

Like a mother.

Sitting beside her in another arm chair (this hospital spared no expense to make my guests comfortable) was Oswald. He looked disheveled: wrinkled wine-colored vest over the white-collared long-sleeve shirt; the sleeves themselves were unbuttoned at the wrists and pulled back above his elbows, tie loosened. He looked like he might have spent a few days here.

As my eyes adjusted to the lighting, I was able to open them to completion, noticing just how…. bare…. the walls and ceiling were in a hospital.

"Ozzie…." I uttered hoarsely.

Oswald reacted. His eyes darted from the bed as he had been staring off into space to me, and moved with impressive feat to my side. Gertrude who grinned at my awakening, only widened her smile as she said to Oswald, "She's awake! I knew it would work!"

"Mother, would you please let the medical staff know she is awake?" Oswald asked politely.

Gertrude nodded, patting his shoulder. She leaned into him and confided in his ear, "I _knew_ my singing would help her. It always helped you…." She giggled and then left the room.

Oswald returned to my side. Abruptly, he lunged forward and wrapped me in his arms, nearly compressing me into him.

"I thought I'd lost you…." Oswald whispered.

When he drew back, tears rolled down his cheeks. He sat back down in his seat, smiling in relief as he held my hand.

"Can't get rid of me that easily," I replied hoarsely. I cleared my throat, looking at him. "God, why do I sound like I just ate a bowl full of rocks? Where am I?"

"They intubated you," he informed. "Doctors apparently do that anytime someone comes through the emergency room with a bullet hole through their neck. And you're in Gotham General Hospital."

"Huh," I said, rubbing my sore throat.

I looked him over. Apparently, my internal curiosity was showing since he glanced at his overall appearance—he had burn marks on his face like he had been electrocuted or hit a few times with a hair straightener.

"It's been a day," Oswald said with a small chuckle. "If Mother asks, I—"

"Fell down the stairs?" I offered, smirking.

"Actually, that _is_ what I told her," Oswald admitted, grinning sheepishly.

"Sweet woman, your mother. What was she singing?" I asked curiously.

Oswald said with a heart-warming smile, "It's a lullaby she used to sing to me every day when I was a child. It always made me feel better so…. her thinking was that if she sang it to you, you would recover."

I chuckled, "Well, she wasn't wrong." Then I said, "So since she's out of the room for the time being. Why don't you tell me what really happened?"

"First things first…." Oswald declared, getting to his feet. He walked around the room to the incredibly clean, porcelain sink, took a disposable drinking cup from the available stack and filled it with tap water. He sat in the arm chair Gertrude had previously occupied, handing the cup to me. I thanked him, taking a few sips and clearing my throat once more.

"How do I sound?" I asked.

"Better," Oswald noted.

At least I didn't sound like an emphysema victim.

I gestured to him.

"Do you remember what happened?" Oswald asked.

I thought for a moment.

"I told Michael Travinsky he couldn't come back to work because you fired him," I recalled calmly. "He was upset, took me hostage, and then he shot me in the neck. Honestly, I'm surprised I lived through it."

"You're a survivor," Oswald chuckled, holding his hands out to me, indicatively. "I'm surprised, but very relieved. The doctors were telling Mother that only twenty-seven percent of gunshot victims actually survive, not to mention those shot in the neck have a smaller percentage."

I quirked an eyebrow, curious to my survival.

"Dr. Bryant," Oswald explained without prompting (as apparently my face shown my own shock), "said that the bullet's trajectory passed through the neck region but did not damage any vital structures."

"Oh…. well, that's good." I said, grinning. "Can't have done much damage—I'm able to talk. And I've only been here for a day or two?"

Oswald's smile faded.

 _Well, that's never good._

"What?" I asked, dreading the worst.

He said nothing.

"Oswald. How long have I been out?" I asked, sitting up.

He quickly lifted his hands to my shoulders, and encouraged me to lie back down. I looked at him pointedly. Oswald pulled his chair closer so we could speak more privately. Aside from the fact that we were the only two people in the room, the hospital door had to be kept open in any case I started going downhill. He held my hand as he spoke.

"You've been in a coma, Sylvia." He said seriously.

I stared at him.

"What?" I mumbled.

"You've been out for a few weeks," said Oswald gingerly.

 _Holy fucking shit._

"Tell me what happened," I said quietly, forcing myself to stay calm.

"After Travinsky shot you," Oswald said, his eyes casting down to the aforementioned area indicatively. "You were rushed to the hospital to undergo emergency surgery; you have been in Intensive Care since then. They only just moved you to this 'stable' wing a few days ago."

 _Wow…._

"Huh…." I muttered. "Three weeks…."

Oswald smiled in understanding, saying, "I've been here mostly every night. So has my mother. And the medical staff have been going above and beyond, looking out for your best interests. So has everyone else."

He gestured to the rest of the room.

Lining the walls of the room were gift baskets, balloons, and get-well cards from god-only-knows how many people—my brothers and sisters in the GCPD who saw me as a sister because I was Jim's blood relative, and countless others. To lift my spirits, Oswald bent forward, his upper half disappearing from my viewpoint temporarily before he reappeared with a gift basket of his own.

"You didn't have to," I said, smiling. "I'm just happy to have woken up with you by my side."

Oswald shrugged.

"I know I didn't _have_ to. But you should know me better by now." He said, placing the gift bag closer to me.

Like a child anticipating his friend to open his gift, he waited eagerly.

I sat up a little more, and pulled out the violet tissue paper. I laughed when I saw what was inside. Taking it out, I placed in front of me. It was a cotton-stuffed penguin plush doll.

"I get it…." I chuckled, looking at him. "Because you're the Penguin."

"I thought you'd find it humorous," Oswald said, grinning widely. "Here, read the card."

I placed the plush doll to my left and opened it.

 _Pigeon,_ it read. _You are my heart. You always have been, always will be. And much like my heart, I cannot live without you. I love you._

 _Eternally Yours,_

 _Oswald._

"That's very sweet," I complimented. "Thank you."

I leaned forward and he met me halfway in a tender kiss.

"So, when did you start calling me 'pigeon'?" I said, smiling mischievously. "You called me that in the ambulance, if I remember correctly."

Oswald blushed a bright shade of pink.

"Truthfully," he said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Never. Just…in my head, for the past year. And, if I am being honest, some time before that."

 _Holy shit, it_ _ **has**_ _been a year. We've been dating a year…._

 _Bypass_ that _conversation, Sylvia._

"Really? Only in your head?" I said curiously. "Why?"

Oswald reclined, hands caressing the arms of the chair.

"In the '50s," he said softly, "a man would call a woman 'Pigeon', or 'Pidge'."

I snickered, "Why would he call her _that_?"

"She was unattainable," said Oswald quietly, his gaze drifted from me to nothing else in particular, as he was lost in thought. He interlaced his fingers together. "Very much like you are."

" _Was_ ," I corrected, holding up a finger, and he quickly looked up at me. "You _have_ me, Ozzie. No one else." I leaned forward, smirking. "So, you've been going all this time calling me a pigeon in your head?"

"Well, when you say it like _that,_ it sounds derogatory," He said cynically.

"No, no—I think it's nice," I reassured. I held up the penguin doll. "Maybe I should find a pigeon plush for Penguin plush. It's only fitting."

"How so?" Oswald asked, tilting his head to the side.

"You have me. I have you," I said gently. "Why should the dolls be any different, hm?"

He grinned, the smile reaching his eyes. And there it was. The look of pure love.

I leaned to the side, placing the gift bag on the floor while placing the penguin doll directly beside my hip. I touched my neck, and I felt the gauze and tape covering it.

"Fucking Michael," I swore, shaking my head. I looked at Oswald. "So, please. Tell me he was gunned down?"

Oswald smiled devilishly, eyes brightening to their malicious tint.

"Of course, he was," Oswald snickered. "Not just by the police."

"Maroni too?"

"Maroni too," Oswald confirmed. "Which reminds me. Don Maroni told me something interesting the other day when he came to visit…."

" _He_ came to visit?" I exclaimed.

Oswald rolled his eyes. He stood and stepped over to the wall lined with several gifts, looking for one in particular. He found one, and placed it in front of me. It was a gift bag, much like the rest of the get-well presents. Taking out gold tissue paper, I pulled out a slim, rectangular box. I looked at Oswald.

"What was the interesting tidbit he said to you?" I asked conversationally.

"You may not like it."

I opened the box and it was a charm bracelet with what appeared to be ebony, sapphire, and ruby Koi fish.

"He said _you_ are _his_ Fish Mooney," Oswald said coolly.

Glancing at him, I saw that this statement alone riled him up something awful. The very words came out like they'd been forced out of him. I wasn't too happy about it either since Fish Mooney was the reason Jim had been ordered to kill Oswald and dump his body at the pier, and was also the reason my boyfriend limped from place to place…. the fucking bitch.

"Well," I said coolly, placing the top back over the box. "It's a nice gesture."

"You won't wear it?" Oswald asked.

"I won't wear something another man gives me—excluding family members." I told him curtly. "Especially if it's supposed to state that I am anything like Mercedes Mooney. Absolutely not. But the gesture is nice."

I placed the charm bracelet back in the box and in the bag, handing it to Oswald, who appeared satisfied with my answer. He placed it at his feet.

"I'm glad Mike died; he deserved it for what he did."

"I couldn't agree more," He concurred.

"So, what happened to _you_?" I asked, looking him over. "You look like you've been mugged by a heating appliance."

Oswald gave me a look, before glancing over his shoulder. Sensing his paranoia, I wasn't surprised when he stood and hobbled to the door, closing it, before he returned to my side. Instead of sitting in the chair like he'd been doing, he sat on the edge of my bed, while I took another drink of water.

"I've been electrocuted twice," Oswald said offhandedly.

"I didn't realize you were into that sort of thing," I teased. "Having fun without me?"

He gave me a look that read, 'Can we not, right now?'

I gestured to him to continue, saying, "Why were you electrocuted?"

"Arkham patient had it out for Maroni and tried electrocuting the GCPD after he escaped—I just happened to be there," Oswald said cynically. Knowing me, he held up his hand saying quickly, "Jim Gordon is all right."

I relaxed.

"As 'all right' as one could be anyway," Oswald muttered.

"Meaning?"

"He was demoted," He said cautiously. "He's been working at Arkham as a correctional officer."

I stared at him.

"WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED WHILE I WAS OUT!" I shouted furiously.

Oswald startled at my projection, holding his hands out to me when I started to get up; he caught my shoulders and gently (but firmly) forced me to lie back against the upright position of my bed.

"What was the reason?" I demanded. "Doing his _job_? Like a fucking cop _should_?"

"As the rumor goes," said Oswald skeptically, "He was the overzealous police officer that interrogated Lovecraft so strenuously that the man disarmed Detective Gordon of his firearm, and shot himself with the gun, completing suicide."

I blinked.

"As according to whom?" I challenged.

"The Mayor." Oswald returned—still exercising caution.

"What a horse's ass," I hissed, crossing my arms in a huff. I looked at Oswald. "Where is Jim right now, do you know?"

"As of this moment, I do not. But before you decide to start shouting, you should know that he was promoted again to detective by our very own Commissioner Loeb."

"This is way too much information," I mumbled, rubbing my temples. I looked at Oswald pointedly. "Is that it?"

"Of course not." He said with a smile. "I've not even told you the best part."

I waited for him to speak.

"Fish Mooney and Butch Gilzean are en route to be tortured by one barbarous fellow named Bob, on Falcone's orders." said Oswald mischievously.

I blinked.

"Wh-How—what…." I stammered. I gathered my thoughts. "How-what-now?"

Oswald smiled at my dumbstruck response.

"Do you recall a young woman by the name of Liza?" He asked.

"Innocent-looking, pretty; she let me borrow her tide pen," I recollected dully.

 _Hold on a minute…._

I felt a little spark in my brain that had nothing to do with the morphine dripping from the IV bag on my right side. I leaned forward and Oswald shared the same mischievous twinkle.

"What happened to her?" I asked knowingly.

"Don Falcone killed her." Oswald answered gleefully. "Strangled her in front of Mooney."

"Did you tell him she was spying for her?"

"I did," He said, grinning widely. "And he didn't believe me at first but the moment he looked at her….it was perfect."

I cradled his face in my hands, grinning until my jaw hurt.

"You're fucking brilliant, Oz," I gushed. "A fucking criminal _mastermind_."

Oswald's smile became sheepish, beaming with the praise. I stood on my knees and crawled to the edge. He momentarily began to protest until I hushed him with a kiss. I parted my lips and he eagerly took the invitation. His arms wrapped around my back. Being unconscious, I hadn't realized just how long it'd been since I felt his touch. The opening in my hospital gown hid nothing from behind and his fingers graced my spine—skin-on-skin. I wanted him right there, to shove all equivocations out the window and just have him in my bed.

Our kissing became fierce, and passionate. My compliments of his intelligence and cunning made him more confident, and god—how I fucking _wanted_ him. I could feel the urgency in my body becoming more than a dull ache; it was screaming for him to take me. My intentions were made clear when I bit his bottom lip and tugged at his belt, pulling him closer to me.

He suddenly withdrew and I looked at him reproachfully.

"We're in a hospital," Oswald said breathlessly, smiling. "You need to _heal_ first."

"You see me dead on the floor?" I inquired sarcastically. "I'm fully healed."

"Not until the doctors release you."

"Oswald, I'm not asking for much," I said coolly. "Fuck me in my hospital bed."

"While that is physically possible and a legitimate request," Oswald managed logically (although he appeared to struggle with his own desire to grant my wish) "We must exercise caution."

I sat in my bed, arms crossed, pouting.

Oswald tried suppressing a grin at my response as he sat in the arm chair to my left.

"You'll recover in no time, Pigeon." Oswald said softly.

 _Pigeon._

 _God, why did that sound so great coming from him?_

I couldn't help but soften at the pet name. He winked at me, knowing that he found the perfect pet name for me. I drank the rest of my water and placed the empty plastic cup upside down on the penguin plush head, smirking.

"Look," I giggled, holding it out to Oswald. "Now, _it_ is king. Like you."

"Will be," Oswald corrected calmly.

"My King of Gotham," I said softly, crossing my ankles and placing the penguin plush on my knees.

"The title just rolls off your tongue," Oswald pointed out.

I shrugged saying, "That's what you'll be."

"With enough patience, time, and effort."

"All three things of which you have," I said smoothly, grinning wickedly. "And you have _me_."

Oswald tilted his head, smirking.

"You know," he said, leaning forward. "I recently had a run-in with Victor Zsasz."

I stopped playing with my doll and looked at him, suddenly worried.

"He had a business proposition for you," Oswald stated (that calm, collected, business-like tone only made me want to make a second attempt to fuck him). "When you have fully recovered, that is."

"A business proposition from Falcone's number one hitman himself," I mused aloud, smirking at him. "What can _that_ be about, I wonder."

"Don't be coy."

"What?" I said innocently. "Everyone in Gotham City knows what Victor does for a living. So, being a Gothamite myself, I can only surmise from your data that he wants to talk about homicide." I shrugged modestly, adding, "It's not like I _hadn't_ thought of doing it. Even you can't deny that I am pretty good at it."

Oswald nodded in agreement.

"What was the proposal exactly?"

"You would become a contracted hit-woman," Oswald explained the details nonchalantly. "You would, in a sense, share contracts. Whatever contracts Victor was given that he did not like, he would give you the opportunity to take them before anyone else."

I smiled sarcastically, saying, "And what does _he_ get out of it?"

"That, I am not so sure," Oswald replied suspiciously.

"I'm not working for Zsasz."

"That was my thought as well, but I doubt it was a hiring proposal."

"I'm not working for anyone," I emphasized as I crossed my legs, Indian-style. "I'm already employed. Remember? I already work for _you_."

"You're a shift-leader at my restaurant," He declared.

"You're not just my boss there," I said, gesturing outside to the restaurant namely. "That's just a job I do because…. well, I say 'why not'. But when you become the King of Gotham, I will more than readily kill anyone you ask. And" (I giggled) "You don't even have to pay me for it. Honestly, you can ask it of me now. Now, if that's not a job proposition, I don't know what is."

"That's not a job, Pigeon." Oswald said. "That's a _partnership_."

I shrugged saying, "Well, call it what you what, Pengy," (his eyebrows quirked at the nickname) "but I'm just saying: you have me as a full-time go-to girl."

"It's crossed my mind."

"What has?"

"A partnership," said Oswald smoothly.

"I'm not very good at managing stuff, Oswald. You know that. I don't have the calculating mind to do it. I tend to just live day-to-day. You're the builder, the problem-solver." I said pointedly. "It's like a car, you know? Someone gives _you_ a car, you'd find a way to get it taken apart, fixed, upgraded, and probably find a way for it to be sold in a world-class auction fit for billionaire Bruce Wayne.

"If you gave _me_ the car, I can certainly find a way to break it apart. Now, putting it _back_ together, well…. Let's just say: 'Sorry, Charlie, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles'. You know?"

In the middle of my rant, Oswald watched me with his chin balanced in the palm of his hand, eyes mesmerized. Hearing nothing from him, I felt a little mortified. I looked at him.

"Well?" I said, gesturing to him. "Say something? I'm feeling a little exposed here."

"You're correct. You _do_ have an affinity for destruction and not even I can deny that your blood lust has certainly outweighed my own on—ahem—a few occasions but…. I would think that is what a partnership would need," Oswald said, getting to his feet. He placed my hands between his. "Someone who can rebuild what the other person can destroy. One half to complement the other."

I stared at him.

"Are we talking about the car or something else?" I asked.

"Something else," said Oswald quietly.

"Then you'll have to include me in your thought bubble, because I am _not_ tracking what you—"

"Marry me."

I stared at him.

"W-what did you just say?"

Oswald looked just as shocked as I did. He just blurted it out! He moved the chair a few feet from the bed and then awkwardly (if not painfully) got down on one knee, taking my hand in his.

"I'm asking you to marry me," Oswald said, now with more confidence, but I could see that maybe he might faint.

I looked at him, incredulous.

We'd talked about it before, once or twice. But I honestly never thought it would happen in a hospital. Seeing him like this made my heart want to jump out of my chest.

"A 'yes' or 'no' would be very much appreciated right now," Oswald muttered, "I'm feeling a little exposed."

I chuckled and said, "Do you really _need_ an answer from me? Yes, Oz. I will marry you."

He stood and looked overjoyed. Any happier and _his_ heart might jump out of his chest. I grinned too, wrapping my arms around him tightly. The door swung open and several medical professionals ran inside, leading the pack was Gertrude. They all looked worried and some even looked outraged until I looked at them with the same surprise.

"The door was shut!" Gertrude said, pointing at the medical professionals. "They thought something was wrong!"

"It's fine," I said, looking at the medics. "It's fine—I'm fine."

"Leave the door open, ma'am." The doctor said briskly before leaving.

I mimicked him: "'Leave the door open', eehhh."

Gertrude gave me a look then smiled at Oswald.

"You look so _happy_ , what happened?" Gertrude asked.

"Mother…." Oswald said, restraining his joy back a bit so as to not completely spoil the surprise. "I just asked her to marry me."

Gertrude looked at me in surprise then at Oswald.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Good! Good! Uh, what she say?"

I laughed, "I said 'yes'!"

And suddenly Gertrude was all screaming and happy. Thinking something bad was happening, the medical professionals that had just walked out came sprinting back in, only to see Gertrude bear-hugging me while Oswald managed to get out of the way so as to not be caught in the python hug himself. The professionals gave us a look of 'seriously, guys?' and then walked out, shaking their heads.

Oswald said pointedly, "At least we left the door open."

"I know, right?" I muttered, rolling my eyes.


	3. Sibling Love

Chapter Three: Sibling Love

A/N: I love writing this chapter! Happy Thanksgiving, peeps! D

Alone in my hospital room, I was left with the television hanging on the wall opposite of me for company. Gotham General could lavish my guests with esteemed furniture but when it came to cable, it spared every penny. There was a total of ten channels to choose from: Four of them were Soap Operas, one of them was completely Spanish-speaking. The remaining six were divided up between the news, cartoons (for the kids), and cooking shows. I chose the lesser of evils and placed it on the Spanish-speaking Opera—the positive spin on it was that the actors looked like they actually _wanted_ to play the part they were given and every now and then, one of them would slap the other dramatically in the face…. that was the most amusing part for me.

I'd only gotten up once to review the other gifts that had been lined against the wall: A fruit basket from Capt. Essen; milk chocolates from Tomas and Gabe (how sweet); a bouquet of tulips from Jim placed in a vase, much appreciated by Nurse Ally (as she called herself); a book of Sudoku puzzles from Ed Nygma (also sweet); and from Harvey Bullock, he'd placed a bottle of cheap strawberry wine under a vast amount of tissue paper—the decoy was a medium-sized version of Pop-eye, the Sailor Man.

Giving me a Pop-Eye doll was something of a joke, I was sure, but at this moment, I still hadn't figured it out. I figured if Harvey came to visit, I would ask him.

In front of me was a tray—lunch time had arrived. Spoiled by Chef Billy's cooking, I was certain that even _I_ could have made something a great deal more appetizing than what had been brought out to me. Long stalks of asparagus were placed on a plate beside a stiff, crunchy-looking biscuit; canned meat (maybe spam?) was scooped and plopped next to it. The staff called it 'chicken', but I had not been out so long as to forget that chicken didn't come out of a can looking like vagina lips.

Needless to say, I pushed my plate away and was currently eating the strawberry yogurt—mostly, I was eating the yogurt while making an adamant effort of avoiding the fruit at the bottom. When I had eaten half the cup, I drank the amazing refreshments that had come with my lunch: water.

There was a knock against the door frame. I looked up and saw Jim grinning widely at me. Nurse Ally, a young-looking female with voluptuous curves and big brown eyes smiled just as widely saying, "Detective James Gordon is here to see you."

"Cool." I said, gesturing him in.

Nurse Ally followed Jim inside, and she looked at my tray. Disappointment.

"You've not eaten anything." She said.

"That's a lie," I returned coolly. "I ate my yogurt."

"That's not nearly enough."

"Well, sue me."

"Miss Gordon, you need to keep up your strength…."

"I _have_ my strength. What I don't have is an appetite. Especially for whatever _this_ is supposed to be." I said, lifting the tray. Even Jim made a face at the meal.

"If you want something else from the kitchen, we can whip something up," Nurse Ally offered kindly.

"Don't make such a fuss. I'm fine." I said calmly, covering the plate once again.

"Sylvia…."

"What?" I questioned. "I said I'm fine."

Jim stepped forward, smiling.

"I've got this," said Jim, nodding for the nurse to leave.

Nurse Ally sighed, reluctantly taking my tray and walked out of the room, closing the door halfway. I pushed the end table to the side, watching Jim sit in the arm chair to my left. It was only then that I realized he had been holding his right hand behind his back—particularly unusual. I gave him a look but my curiosity was answered as he placed a bag in front of me.

"Tacos," said Jim, smirking at me. "Soft shell, meat, cheese, tomato, lettuce, extra sauce."

I grinned widely at him.

"Thank _youuuu_ ," I said happily. "You're a godsend, Jimmy."

Jim reclined back in the chair. He wore his usual suit—not the Arkham correctional officer uniform like I had been expecting—so I assumed what Oswald had told me was true. Not that I ever doubted him, but Commissioner Loeb reinstating a guy like Jim sounded more like a rumor than a fact.

"You're looking better," Jim said gently, watching me eat.

"Well, I feel better," I returned. "Aside from having a hole in my neck, I'm just peachy."

"Yes…." Jim muttered.

His face was crestfallen, the smile had suddenly disappeared.

"I have a question for you," I told him. "Two actually."

"Sure," said Jim.

"How come you didn't shoot him?" I asked him coolly.

"Who?"

"Mike Travinsky," I answered.

Jim cleared his throat, smiling cynically: "You were his hostage. He was holding you in front of him, Vee. I didn't have a shot."

"I _told_ you to shoot him," I emphasized. " _That_ was your shot."

"I couldn't take the chance of hurting you."

"Like the way _he_ hurt **me**?" I retorted.

"You can be angry at me all you want," said Jim quietly, "but I'm just glad you're okay."

"No thanks to you," I said sardonically.

Jim furrowed his eyebrows at me, like he didn't understand.

"He hurt me," I told him, gesturing to the gauze over my neck. "He'd have done it regardless of the circumstances—police or no police."

"Why did he?"

"Why did he what?"

"Shoot you?" Jim questioned. "You said he would have done it either way. What reason did you give him to shoot you?"

I chuckled, sitting back against the upright bed.

"I have a real job, James. I work as a shift-leader in Oswald's restaurant. At one point, Mike had been under his employ. After he made a comment about me fucking my boss, Oswald fired him."

"You _are_ fucking your boss, if you're working in his restaurant," said Jim pointedly.

"Very true," I agreed. "However, it needn't be said. Contrary to what you may think about him, Jimmy, Oswald's a true gentleman. Anything said against me that remotely damages my honor is not only an insult to me, but an insult to him as well. Mike knew this. He was fired because of me."

"Cobblepot fired him," Jim reaffirmed.

"Because of _me_ ," I emphasized. I smirked saying, "You'd be amazed how far he will go to make sure I am taken care of, to defend my honor, to make sure _nothing_ happens to me. And, Jim. I hate to tell you this, but if Oswald had been in _your_ shoes, he would have shot the prick when I asked him to—like when I _told_ you to."

"You would have gotten killed…."

"You could have **tried**!" I snapped. "And look at me! Regardless of your actions, I would have been harmed. But _you_ hesitated. I told you to shoot him, James. I _told_ you."

"That's not how it works, Vee," Jim insisted curtly.

"Tell me how it works then," I demanded. "Tell me. What else could have happened, huh? What's the worst that could have happened if you'd have taken the shot? You—what—might have killed Michael? He was a flagrant baboon, a man who brought a gun into the restaurant and _knew_ what he was going to do before the situation ever escalated."

"I could have killed you," Jim said.

"And that would have been fine."

"Not with me."

I frowned.

"What if you killed Michael?" I asked. "What if you could have killed him? Seeing your sister in the literal hands of life and death, didn't that piss you off?"

Jim glared at me.

"You know it did."

"What kept you from pulling the trigger?"

Jim looked at me. The _same_ look he had given me when he was only seconds away from shoving the samurai sword into Sionis. During that time, he had glanced at me only seconds before considering it and then after he had met my eyes, seeing me, he had just hopped off the desk and threw the weapon down.

The same look, the same glance, the identical hesitation now shown before me.

"It's the same thing that kept you from killing Sionis," I spoke quietly, more out of my own realization than directly to Jim.

He looked surprised.

I placed the bag of tacos to the side, leaning forward.

"What did you see when you looked at me, Jim?"

"Sylvia…."

"Don't. You saw something in me that kept you from killing Sionis. Despite _everything_ he put you through—putting you in a trap with six men who tried to kill you, _knowing_ you were a cop, _knowing_ they could die. What kept you from killing the man who put your _sister_ in the line of these six guys, huh? Something kept you from doing it. You looked at me, _saw_ me, and then stopped. And the same thing happened with Mike." I said adamantly.

Jim's lips were parted, eyebrows furrowed, eyes glistening with knowing but hesitation. He then drew back, reclining against the chair, and he crossed his arms.

"Don't shut me out, James," I said, my voice hardening. "You _saw_ something in me. It kept you from doing what is necessary…."

"Murder isn't necessary!" Jim suddenly snarled. "It is _never_ right."

"Says the man who killed people."

"That was war."

" _Gotham_ is war," I retaliated. "Gotham isn't black and white—it's full of gray, blue, and purple, and _lots and lots_ of red. You should have killed Sionis, Jim, just like you should have killed Mike."

"No."

"'No'?"

Jim grimaced.

"You want to know what I saw that day, Sylvia?"

"Obviously!" I exclaimed, gesturing to him.

"I saw _you_." Jim stated coldly.

I stared at him.

"What do you mean?"

Jim's face softened, but his voice remained detached and stern.

"I saw the difference between you and myself, the line between us." Jim whispered, looking at me endearingly, but sympathetic. "We've walked different paths all the time—I joined the Army, police academy, and you chose…. well, a different path than I would have thought you'd have chosen."

"A line?" I questioned, chuckling. "You think there is a _line_ separating us?"

"You think _murder_ is necessary," Jim emphasized harshly.

"In Gotham, it is."

"It's not right."

"No one ever said it was," I told him coldly. "I'd have killed Sionis, James. I'd have killed him because of what he has done to you, to us. You saw what he was—you saw that he was a monster, but you hesitated. You saw Mike Travinsky—he held a gun to my neck, to my _head_ , and you hesitated. If we had switched places and he was holding a gun to _your_ head, I would have shot the motherfucker in the face."

Jim frowned.

"Fine," Jim said quietly. "You got me. I hesitated both times."

"Tell me why."

"I told you."

"I want you to say it," I said coldly. "I'm in a fucking hospital with a hole in my fucking neck. I think I deserve that much. Tell me why you hesitated."

Jim winced before he managed carefully and painfully: "I don't want to become you."

I gave him a look, clearly offended, I was. Then I smiled.

"Thank you for the tacos, Jimmy. They were great," I said calmly. "But you know…. it's not that you don't want to become me. You _want_ to be me, you _want_ to be free. I've always told you that the only difference between us is that I embrace my darkness—tenfold. You're afraid to let it control you, to give in to your dark intentions, and you say you don't want to become me, but I can tell you _want_ nothing more than to **be** me."

Jim's frown deepened.

"You're wrong," Jim muttered.

"Am I?" I challenged.

"Yes."

"Well," I sighed, leaning back into my bed. "You continue to be self-righteous, big brother, but all those years of being a good boy has only shrouded what you have tried to cover. One day, all that anger you have in your brain will come a-calling. And then you will see that I have been right. Until then, thanks for the tacos. I'm glad you came to see me."

Jim looked at me coolly.

"I love you, Vee," Jim said softly, getting to his feet. "If I could, I would turn back time and make it so you would have never been hurt."

His words touched my heart and I smiled.

"I know you would." I said gently. "And I love you too."

Jim took the empty bag of tacos and threw it the trash.

"Do you want a coke?" Jim asked. "I'm about tired of water."

"Don't tease."

"Bottled or can?"

"Don't make me beg," I joked.

"Bottled, it is," said Jim.

He bent forward, kissed my forehead, and then walked out of the room. He returned shortly with a bottled coke for me and a Styrofoam cup of coffee for him.

He took a sip and grimaced.

"Hospital coffee isn't gourmet," I laughed as Jim poured the rest down the sink.

"I've been spoiled by your coffee-making skills," Jim chuckled, sitting in the arm chair to my left.

"I have a knack for it, I admit."

"It's an art."

"Speaking of art," I mused. "How's Barbara?"

Jim's face fell and he admitted quietly, "We're not together anymore."

I touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely. "Did she leave?"

"Yes. She's been gone a while, not answering any of my phone calls. I dropped off my keys at her place a week ago," said Jim quietly.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know how much you love her."

He looked reluctant to talk anymore about her so I changed the subject: "Oswald told me you were in Arkham—patrolling the criminally insane?"

"Yep."

"How'd that go?"

"Messy," Jim returned.

"Sounds fun."

"It wasn't."

"Enlighten me," I offered. I held out my coke: "Sip?"

"I'm fine."

"Drink it, Jim. I don't have cooties."

Jim conceded and he took a gulp of my coke, handing it back to me.

He said coolly, "I never want to go back. The place is a nuthouse."

"Well, you can't complain about the nuts when you're working in a peanut factory," I said humorously. "Who was Jack Gruber?"

"Read the papers, have you?"

"Some," I returned. "Oswald pretty much updated me when I woke up."

"He was here?"

"Don't change the subject."

Jim nodded dutifully.

"Jack Gruber escaped, and tried going after Maroni."

"Tried?"

"Obviously, he failed. The man's still alive, isn't he?"

"Did Gruber get caught?"

"Yes," said Jim.

"Is that how you're able to wear your starched suits again?" I said, smirking. "It's a pity I didn't get to see you in the Arkham get-up. I bet you look like a real boy scout."

Jim looked offended saying, "I thought I looked okay."

"Sure—that's what you said about your boy scout's uniform. Dork."

Jim chuckled, "Well, the important thing is that I am back in the line of duty. It's good to be back."

"Oh yeah—homicide here, a suicide there," I chortled. "Keeps you on your feet."

"Always."

"Have you been swept off those feet of yours by any chance?" I asked curiously.

"What do you mean?"

"You're a detective, Jimmy. Read between the lines." I said coolly. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"That's inappropriate."

"No, it's not. I'm your sister. We can talk about murder and the like, but I can't ask about your relationship status? Doesn't that sound a little weird to you?" I questioned logically.

"Not at all."

I grinned broadly.

"Tell me about her," I said.

"I didn't say there was anyone."

"You didn't have to. I know you by now. I knew when you had your first girlfriend, and I know when you have one now. So, tell me about her." I insisted, taking another drink of my coke.

"Sylvia…."

"Fine, don't tell me. I'm going to ask you questions, and you just say 'yes' or 'no'." I offered.

"This isn't a game."

"It is for _me._ Humor me—I have a Spanish-speaking Soap Opera on my TV, the only tolerable channel for Gotham General, so please…."

Jim lowered his head in mock surrender.

"Thanks," I chirped. "So….is she tall?"

"No."

"Is she shorter than you?"

"Yes."

"Awesome, height difference is nice." I mused, smirking at him. "Is she blonde?"

"No."

"Redheaded?"

"No."

"Brunette?"

"Yes," Jim said smoothly.

I grinned broadly and asked, "What color eyes does she have?"

"I thought you were only going to ask 'yes' or 'no' questions," Jim recalled smartly.

"Well, I thought I would give you some leeway. This isn't an interrogation."

"I have to disagree with that, but go on." Jim said, getting to his feet.

I looked up at him curiously then asked, "Green eyes?"

"Not exactly."

"Hazel?"

"Sometimes."

"Do they change colors?" I asked.

"Yes."

"She sounds beautiful."

"She is."

"What's her name?"

Jim smiled secretively.

"Fine, don't tell me her name." I reconciled, crossing my ankles. "Does she work at Arkham?"

"Yes."

"Is she a corrections officer?"

"No."

"Director?"

"No."

"Nurse."

"No." Jim said, "But you're close."

"Doctor."

"Bingo."

I smirked saying, "Ooh, look at _you_. Suave Detective Gordon getting in the circle with a lovely female doctor—aren't you just a sly little devil."

"Don't poke fun," Jim responded, but he smiled in spite of himself.

"How'd you meet?"

"You're breaking your rules again."

"Rules were meant to be broken."

"I disagree."

"Of course, you do," I sighed, rolling my shoulders back. "But that's irrelevant."

Jim gave me a look, and I held up my hands in surrender saying, "Fine, fine—let's not start _that_ argument again." I leaned forward: "Have you taken her anywhere? Date-wise?"

"Not yet."

"Ooh, playing the field."

"Not really."

"I know—I just like teasing you." I admitted, grinning devilishly. "You make it too easy."

Jim's agreement was nonverbal as he took a seat again.

"All joking aside," I said lightly, "Does Barbara know you've moved on?"

"I've not been able to get a hold of her," said Jim seriously. "She's not returning my phone calls."

"She said she needed time for herself, right?"

"Yes."

"Did she say how much time?"

"No," said Jim. "But it's been a few days, and she hasn't tried to get in contact with me. So, I can only assume we're done." He looked at me pointedly: "Now it's my turn."

"Excuse me?"

"You've interrogated me. So now I get to ask _you_ questions."

"I doubt you want to know the answer to any of them," I reassured wholeheartedly. "You have a vein that pops out of your forehead anytime we talk about my relationship."

"I do not."

"You do too." I teased. "It's kind of funny. It's hard for me to take you seriously when you're pissed. You could always wear a hat to cover it up."

"I'm not wearing a hat."

"Couldn't pull it off, even if you tried."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I try," I said, smirking.

"Back to the topic…."

I shrugged my shoulders saying, "Fine. You want to talk about Oswald? Have at it, but let me assure you that I am a hundred-percent certain that you will _not_ like what you hear. And just so you know—if these medical peeps hear you shouting, they'll probably come in full force."

"Duly noted," Jim returned coolly. "I won't get mad."

"Promise?"

"My word."

"Good." I said, smirking. "Then you should know this first. Oswald proposed to me yesterday and I said 'yes'."

Jim's eye twitched.

My smirk just widened ear-to-ear as I said, "How _badly_ do you want to yell at me right now?"

"I'm exercising a great deal of control _not_ to yell," Jim said, his voice was strained.

I shrugged saying, "Didn't I say you wouldn't like it?"

Jim took a long inhalation before breathing out very deeply, and I chuckled at his response.

"So…." Jim began, clearing his throat. "When…. when's the wedding?"

"Don't know."

"No time or date?"

"Not yet," I informed.

"And you're fine with this?"

"Yep."

Jim sighed saying, "You _really_ want to marry him?"

"I do." I said smoothly. "He makes me happy."

"For whatever reason, he does _that_ at least," Jim muttered, jaw clenching.

"If you want," I said slyly, "when we have our wedding, I can throw my bouquet to your doctor lady friend. Then I can go to _your_ wedding."

Jim chuckled despite his need to scream at the top of his lungs that this was a mistake. I watched him grip the arms of his chair and his eye twitched again. It was hilarious.

"There's that vein…." I said, leaning forward and pointing at his forehead. "There. Right there."

"Vee. Stop."

"What?"

"Stop touching me."

"I'm not touching you," I taunted. "See?" I pointed without touching his forehead. "No contact."

"That doesn't make it less annoying."

"Childhood revenge," I giggled. "And it is delicious."

"Vee."

"I'm not touching you; I'm not touching you; I'm not touching you," I taunted.

"Seriously." Jim caught my wrist and said pointedly, "That's _really_ annoying."

"Says the same kid that annoyed _me_ when I was trying to read my 'People' magazines" I recalled coyly.

"It's annoying when you're on the receiving end of it," Jim muttered.

"Well, now you know." I returned, getting back in my bed.

Jim's anger was lost on him as he couldn't help smiling.

"It's nice to know your injury hasn't dulled your spirits," Jim said gently.

"I figured if I get another one, it could go right here," I humored, touching the other side of my neck. "Then I could call myself 'Frankenstein'."

I hopped to the counter full of antiseptic supplies and placed two tongue depressors on both sides of my neck. I mimicked the monster as Jim took a gulp of my coke and when he saw me, he snorted.


	4. Nygma Visits

Chapter Four: Nygma Visits

A/N: Sometimes, I miss innocent, quirky little Edward. Here's another chapter! :D

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A few more days passed during which I remained in the hospital. The doctor wanted to observe me in recovery, looking out for infection. The curtain was pulled around the bed as he and Nurse Ally stood on either side of me while the doctor unveiled my wound. The gauze and tape were moved, and the it was cleaned with soap and water. Doc said I would be discharged within the next twenty-four hours and in the meantime, I should eat my meals and drink my water. As Nurse Ally pulled the curtain to expose the rest of the room, the doctor left to tend to his other patients and then the nurse shortly followed him after, leaving me to my solitude. I stood to my feet and walked to the sink; above it hung a mirror on the wall, and I observed the damage.

On the right side of my neck, just below the carotid artery was a stitched line, less than an inch. The stitches themselves had been removed. Thanks to my coma that had lasted three weeks (apparently), the wound itself was almost if not entirely healed. Why the doc wanted a 'few more days' of observation was beyond me.

 _Liability reasons,_ I supposed.

"Hello, Miss Gordon!"

" _Ah_!" I squeaked, and I quickly turned to see Edward Nygma standing near my bed.

So lost in my musings, I hadn't heard or seen him come in my room.

He looked different without the lab jacket. He wore a forest green sweater over what I could only surmise was a blue long-sleeve and a brown-and-yellow tie. It wasn't one I would expect to look fashionable all tied together, but Nygma pulled it off all right. He grinned widely and I placed my hand over my heart, relieved to know that it was still beating.

"How long have you been standing there?" I questioned (I was thankful that I was given a gown that actually _covered_ my rump).

"Not long," Nygma admitted, smiling innocently. He looked around. "This is a nice room."

"Eh. I'm tired of it," I said as I sat back in bed. "Thank you for the Sudoku puzzles, Mr. Nygma."

"Not a problem, Miss Gordon." He returned smartly. He glanced at the TV. "Not many channels to choose from, I suppose?"

"You're correct; but I shouldn't be surprised by that." I said, smiling sweetly. "I didn't know you were coming by."

"Detective Gordon mentioned that you were still in the hospital," said Nygma, sitting down in the armchair most people had taken to occupying, "So when I heard, I thought I should drop by."

"That's sweet," I commented. "You didn't have to."

"Well, honestly, I thought it was only justifiable."

"What do you mean?"

Nygma leaned forward with a quirky grin, saying, "You're the talk of the GCPD, Miss G. If you don't believe me—"

"—I don't—"

"Well, look for yourself," Nygma chortled.

From what appeared to be hammer space, he pulled out a newspaper and handed it to me.

In big bold letters, the headline read: **Detective's Sister Shot by Crazy Gunman—Survives.**

"With all the tall tales they spin," I said, placing the paper on the end table, "you'd think they would be more inventive with their headlines."

"I said the same thing." Nygma returned with an approving nod.

"So, what are they talking about? The GCPD?" I questioned curiously.

"All good things," Nygma reassured. "How you're a survivor and 'definitely Jim's sister'."

"I survived what should have killed me," I returned as I leaned back in my 90-degree angled bed. "A thousand cops do that every day and no one makes big news about that."

"You're a civilian," said Nygma. "That's why it's big news."

I shrugged saying, "If they knew just what I have been through, they wouldn't make a fuss."

Nygma cocked his head to the side.

"What do you mean by that?" He asked.

"Nothing," I said dully. "Nothing you need to worry about."

He appeared unconvinced but dropped the topic.

"How's Ms. Kringle?" I asked curiously.

Nygma looked at me, startled: "Who?"

"You're a smart man, Edward. So, don't play dumb," I said, smiling knowingly at him. "I see the way you look at her."

"Ms. Kringle is…. She's fine. One would assume so, anyway," Nygma said, aloof.

My turn to tilt my head to the side.

"That doesn't sound reassuring," I noted.

"Nothing gets passed you," He said quietly.

"Come on, Edward. I know I am not your closest friend, but I _do_ know when something is wrong." I said gently.

"Well, in every principality, we're not friends at all," said Nygma pointedly. "You and I tell the occasional riddle and then we go back to business-as-usual."

"True," I agreed. "But if we're not, then why are you visiting me at the hospital?"

"Excellent point," Nygma muttered, glancing at me uncertainly. "I'm not so sure. I wanted to make a friendly gesture…. I suppose. Maybe. I don't know exactly why I came."

I grinned saying, "Maybe you wanted to seek out some advice in regards to getting Kristen Kringle?"

Nygma said shyly, "Maybe."

"Kristen Kringle…. that's a humorous name," I chortled.

"I know, right?" Nygma returned. "But she certainly is pretty….and she smells nice."

Nygma was like a little kid with his school-boy crush. He sat on the edge of my bed, awkwardly making certain that he wasn't sitting on my lap or anything and then looked at me seriously.

"She's dating this guy," Nygma grumbled. " _Flass_."

" **Flass**?" I repeated.

Nygma frowned: "You know him?"

"I've heard of him." I stated. "She has an _odd_ taste in men, doesn't she?"

"You have _no_ idea," said Nygma, rolling his eyes.

"Have you tried telling her how you feel?" I offered.

"I can't. At least…. Not personally," said Nygma.

"Why not?"

"I get nervous."

"Which is why you _should_ tell her face-to-face." I reasoned.

"That doesn't sound logical."

"Maybe not but take it from me. When guys get nervous while trying to ask out a girl, it doesn't show weakness. I think it's pretty adorable. You just need some confidence, a pep in your step," I advised sweetly. "But if you think you can't say it to her face, then maybe there's a way you can _show_ her. Actions speak louder than words after all..."

"I gave her a cupcake with a bullet in it." Nygma blurted.

"Well, something less morbid," I offered, smiling reassuringly. "It's a nice gesture, but I don't think Kristen is that type of girl."

"Are you?" Nygma said quizzically.

"Pardon?"

"Would _you_ have wanted a cupcake with a bullet in it?"

"I'd accept a cupcake no matter what was in it…. except a finger…. or a maggot," I said humorously. "Anyway…." I touched his arm. "You need to think of what type of girl Kristen is, and then go from there. She seems like a girl who likes ballroom dancing—"

"—We don't have elegant ballrooms in Gotham—"

"—Maybe she likes the beach—"

"We don't have beaches," Nygma interjected.

"What I'm _saying_ ," I hushed, stopping him from talking, "is that you need to find what _Kristen_ likes. What does she like?"

"Well—"

"And don't say riddles," I said quickly.

Nygma looked at me.

"Not everyone likes riddles, Ed. Don't give me that look, you _know_ it's true. Kristen might like poetry." I offered. "Some girls do."

Nygma interlaced his fingers together, looking at his thumbs in thought.

"Huh. Poetry." He muttered.

He suddenly grinned at me.

"Thank you, Miss Gordon!"

"No problem!" I said.

He quickly stood and walked out of the room.

I looked after him, curious.

What an odd fellow.

 _No odder than_ your _fellow_.

In a few minutes that followed, the doctor came back into the room, smiling.

"Am I finally able to leave?" I asked coolly.

"Yes," said the doctor.

"Good."

"But you have to sign these forms."

"I'll sign a million-dollar check for you right now if it means I can leave," I reassured strongly as I took the pen and packet and started signing shit.

The doctor chortled on his way out.


	5. Victor And I Make A Deal

Chapter Five: Victor and I Make A Deal

* * *

 _Bed._

The feeling of my own bed was so good, the moment I fell into it, I fell asleep for about four hours. When I woke up, I coddled myself in a sapphire-blue robe and walked to the kitchen. I didn't know I was singing anything until a voice spoke in the darkness:

"You have an _amazing_ set of pipes."

I grabbed the nearest weapon I could, turned on the lights, and saw that I pushed it against the body belonging to Victor Zsasz, who was grinning increasingly in amusement. And I understood why: I held a wooden spoon to his neck. He hadn't even shifted in his position, leaning into the corner of connected counters.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here, Zsasz?" I questioned harshly, throwing the spoon in the kitchen sink.

"Calm down. I'm only here on business."

"Yeah, I know what you do for business—so that doesn't put me at ease," I said carefully, stepping closer to the kitchen table where underneath hid only one of my many measures for home security.

Apparently, he read my mind. From behind him, he held up a pistol.

"Looking for this?" He asked smugly.

I frowned.

"Like I said," Victor stated coolly, "I'm here on business. You're not in any danger."

"From whose perspective?"

Victor chuckled at my wit. He stepped towards me and placed my gun on the table. I took it, holding the firearm in my hand loosely in any case he changed the tables on me.

"I'm assuming Penguin passed along my message?" Victor asked hopefully.

"The business proposition, you mean. Yes, he did pass it along to me. No, I'm not working for you."

"Like all messages," he sighed, "they all get garbled somehow. You're misunderstanding the message."

"Am I now?" I challenged.

"Yes. So, with your permission, I'd like to explain," said Victor smoothly.

He pulled out a chair, implying that we were going to have a nice conversation. Hesitantly, I sat while he slid a chair from the table, sitting in reverse.

I was rigid, feeling not at all comfortable with him being in my house when I had all my bases locked. But that didn't stop a man like him—a thief could break into my apartment; the locks could keep a zombie out but an exceptional thief or a man with a will like Victor's could find a way in. For a moment, Victor was quiet as he observed my narrowed eyes, the rigidity of my disposition. He looked around the apartment and smiled.

"You have a nice place here," Victor noted.

"Thank you. You were going to explain?"

Victor smiled even wider.

"I'll be blunt." Victor stated. "I want you to come work with me."

"In what context?" I questioned. "Sharing contracts Falcone gives you? I'm not a hitwoman, Victor."

"You have the potential to be."

"Ugh—I'm so tired of people telling me about my potential."

"Like who?"

"Fish Mooney, Jim…now _you_ ," I said, gesturing to him. "Fish wanted me to be like her, you know. To be a woman in power, to be strong—but she doesn't know that I _am_ strong."

"You don't have power."

"I don't need it," I said pointedly.

Victor chuckled, "And _that's_ why I want you on my team, Sylvia."

I stared at him.

"I'm totally lost right now." I said, confused.

Victor leaned forward. I leaned back.

"I don't want you to work for me or with me, to be honest," said Victor. "But I certainly don't want you working _against_ me either."

"You're a homicidal maniac with exceptional set of target practice skills," I reminded him. "Why would you have any resignations about me?"

Victor said honestly, "I try not to underestimate strong-willed, confident women."

"So, you come into my apartment when I am at my least prepared so you can make—what—a peace offering?" I asked, gesturing to the apartment in general.

Seeing my skepticism, Victor held out his hands like he was about to give up.

"I think it would be a hoot-and-a-half if you would come with me to fulfill a contract," said Victor. "There's good money involved."

"Money isn't my passion."

"So, what is?" Victor asked. "There must be _something_ you want."

"Why are you pressuring me so hard to join you on your little jobs?" I questioned. "What I want to know is this: What's in it for **you**?"

"Suspicious, huh?"

"Overtly cautious," I corrected. "And I have reason to be. You tried killing my brother before, remember?"

"It was a job."

"He's still my family."

"Let's not dwell on the technicalities, shall we?" Victor insisted, splaying his fingers on the table. "Falcone has some pretty tasty contracts coming up—people he needs disposed of and tortured. And you—I've seen how you handled Joseph that day."

I gave him a look saying, "You gave me advice on how to break into the back of the store. That worked out nicely—I meant to thank you for that."

"So, return the favor," Victor suggested.

"In exchange for what?"

"Well, you don't want money."  
"I don't."

"But," said Victor slowly. "There is something you should consider before you tell me 'no'."

"What if I _am_ telling you 'no' right now and you're just refusing to listen to me?"

Victor shrugged saying, "You're not. Are you?"

I stayed silent. And he grinned widely.

"I can make you into an exceptional killer, Sylvia." Victor persuaded. "With a little training, a different flair" (he eyed my robe) "You could make for a beautiful, unsuspecting weapon."

"And why would I want to be a weapon?"

"Because you want to be able to protect your _true_ source of passion," Victor mused.

I blinked.

Victor stood and seemed to glide to the living room and returned with the picture of Oswald and myself during our first date. He wore a suit; I wore a yellow sundress. We were smiling in the photo.

Victor placed the picture in front of me, pointing to Oswald.

"You want to be _his_ weapon, don't you, Sylvia?"

"How do you know this?"

"I know your type," said Victor lazily. "You don't want money, power, and you certainly don't give a damn about your own personal welfare. But you care about Cobblepot. And you would do _anything_ for him—die for him, kill for him. And that, in itself, is valuable to _me_."

"Why do I feel like I am being threatened?" I questioned calmly.

"You're not, trust me. If I was threatening you, you would know."

"You're telling me that you will train me, make me a professional like you so I can protect the man I love with every fiber of my being—and this is purely out of the own goodness of your own heart?" I said skeptically. "I never knew you were such a romantic. Why do I not believe you?"

"You have a cop for a brother, and one _heck_ of a paranoid fellow for a boyfriend—"

"Fiancé," I corrected immediately.

"—Congrats," said Victor, holding his hands up in the air and then lowering them to his lap. "You have every reason to be suspicious. But I don't want anything from you except to say that I trained you, _made_ you. You, Sylvia, are a project."

"I'm offended."

"Sorry." Victor said, sounding less than apologetic. "But you asked what I will get out of this arrangement. And that's what I will get."

"Bragging rights?" I scoffed. "You want the right to say you trained me."

"That's all," said Victor, crossing his heart with his finger. "And you, in turn, get all the training you'd like from me. Just look at me as your mentor."

"I see you more as being a horse's ass."

"Don't be rude."  
"A horse's butt then."

"Please be courteous," Victor said sternly. "I've not insulted _you_ , have I?"

"You haven't. I apologize."

Victor smiled, getting to his feet.

"That is my business proposition."

"How would it work?"

"You come with me on contracts from time to time," said Victor smoothly, "and I show you just how a true professional gets things done. You may back out anytime you want, but you have the same blood as Jim's."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"You can't stand to lose," said Victor, winking at me. "So, I know you won't back out. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

I stood to my feet as well.

He held out his hand.

"Deal."


	6. Celebrating Fish's Absence

Chapter Six: Celebrating Fish's Absence

A/N: Another chapter! I'm pretty excited, guys! I have _so_ much planned!

Because Fish was gone, Oswald was bringing his mom to the club to celebrate what would soon be his. Because this was a special occasion for him, I dressed up—and I even put on mascara. With a redheaded woman with sky blue eyes in a periwinkle-colored, ankle-length dress as my reflection, I felt more than justified in feeling sexy. I'd decided against the tight, skin-hugging black cocktail dress for two reasons: His mother would be there, and I wanted to hide the knife that was laced to my thigh behind a garter. My ginger roots had grown in the past year to my shoulders and I pulled it to one shoulder.

I heard my phone buzzing on the bathroom counter. I picked it up on the third vibration.

"Sylvia?"

"I'm on my way out," I commented.

Oswald chuckled, "It's like you already knew why I was calling."

"I've been getting ready," I said distractedly, "I'll be there soon."

"Good. I sent Gabe to meet you outside whenever you are ready. Is he there?"

I peeked outside the window and saw a car waiting for me.

"I see him," I answered.

"Good. I love you, Sylvia."

"Love you too, see you soon."

We hung up simultaneously. I looked at the little penguin plush doll that sat on the bathroom sink, and gave it a little pat on the head before leaving the apartment. My white two-inch heels clicked the concrete as I stepped outside, noting the gray atmosphere. Gabe crawled out of the driver's seat, and opened my passenger door gracefully.

"Looks like it might rain," I told him.

"Well, it wouldn't surprise me," said Gabe conversationally in his deep baritone.

He closed my door as I was situated and came around the other side, getting in and starting the car once more.

"You look nice," Gabe pointed out.

"Thank you," I said, grinning broadly. "Is that a new tie?"

He touched his own suit, and straightened it with my compliment.

"Yeah."

"It looks good." I complimented.

"Thanks." He said, and that dopey grin creased his lips the entire drive to Mooney's club.

When we parked, he did the same as before—he went to the passenger door, and opened it for me. I thanked him. He escorted me to the center of the club. The last time I was here, Fish had stabbed Oswald in the hand with a needle pin and I had only been seconds away from killing her.

 _Ah memories_.

"Dear?" Oswald greeted, smiling.

"Sorry, just reminiscing," I sighed.

He kissed me on my cheek, and I beamed.

His mother was talking to one of his other friendly followers (as friendly as one could be) and I admired how well she looked. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she wore make-up.

"You tell her about the club?" I asked quietly.

"Only what she needed to know," said Oswald just as softly. "She ruined my surprise."

"Guessed it before you could say it, huh?"

"Of course."

"Well, can you blame her?" I whispered, smirking when Gertrude insisted that Gabe dance with her.

"What do you mean?"  
"You are capable of obtaining the things you want," I told him. "You wanted a club—you'll get it. She knows it," I said, pointing at his mother. "She may not know _how_ you'll get it or why, but…. she knows your potential."

Oswald beamed at my praise.

"You really know how to make a man feel good about himself," Oswald noted.

"We _both_ know," I said, winking at him.

Oswald startled when I licked his ear, and he staggered to get his affairs back in order.

"Not in front of _her_ ," Oswald whispered, his eyes darting to Gertrude.

I grinned mischievously saying, "You'll have to kiss me in front of her on our wedding day, you know. Might as well start practicing."

Oswald said pointedly, "Kissing is one thing, Pidge. Licking me is another."

"Well, I wanted to lick something else, but I decided against it, so you should count yourself lucky." I said slyly.

Oswald gave a stern look.

"I'll behave," I promised, kissing him gingerly on the lips, and he returned it.

Gertrude then gestured vigorously for me to join her in dancing.  
"I really don't want to dance," I declined.

"It's a waltz," said Gertrude as though this would make me feel any better.

It didn't.

"I'm not the waltzing type," I tried to explain.

"No, no, no—come on…." Gertrude insisted, taking my hand. When I hesitated, she looked at me oddly. "Do you know _how_ to dance?"

"I can dance like a restless third-grader drunk on the firewater of personal achievement," I joked, "If that's what you mean."

"No, no," Gertrude giggled. "This is more elegant, classier."

"Then no, I don't know how to dance." I returned—I could feel my face burning.

I avoided Oswald's gaze.

She and Oswald had a taste for flair, for all things that were sophisticated. Their way of dressing said so and for Christ's sake, Oswald could speak French and he understood Russian. His mother's apartment alone reflected antique and class. And apparently, she knew how to ballroom dance. So, I could only guess she might have taught Oswald as well.

And then there was me—The middle-class girl who grew up with a lawyer for a father and a soldier for a brother. In that kind of situation, I would never have dreamt that I would want to know how to waltz.

Now I wish I had.

Apparently, my face was turning the shade of my hair because Gertrude smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry, mein Lamm*, I thought you knew—no matter," Gertrude said, taking my hand. "We shall remedy that! I will teach you."

"Oh god—no…." I began to pull away.

"No-no, come back, there's no better time than now!" Gertrude persisted, and she pulled me back to her.

Gabe was grinning and I saw Oswald trying to hold back a laugh.

"Just put your hands here," directed Gertrude, taking my left hand and placing it firmly on her shoulder while she held the other one. And her left hand rested on my hip. "Now…. we go one, two, three… then one, two, three—don't look at my feet…."

"Then how am I supposed to know where I'm stepping?" I asked incredulously.

"Just look in my eyes, _look_ in them—not down. _Up_."

"I **am** looking at your eyes," I said, grinding my teeth. "But that isn't helping my coordination."

"Just relax into it, my girl," Gertrude said sheepishly. "And don't forget to breathe."

"Oh right," I said, suddenly letting a huge puff of air escape me. I hadn't even known I was holding my breath to begin with!

"Seriously, Mrs. K, I'm not really—" I began once more but she silenced me with her louder version of " _One, Two, Three_ ".

"You see," said Gertrude as she led the waltz, "every young lady must know how to dance."

I muttered, "One, two, th-three….one, two" (then blurted) " _How_ do you dance when there are _other_ people knocking into you?"

"No one will knock into you," she comforted.

"So, everyone else knows how to do this?" I questioned.

Gertrude giggled, looking at Oswald as she said, "She's funny, isn't she!"

"Never a dull moment," Oswald agreed, smirking.

"I pity the youth," Gertrude said, looking back at me. "No one knows how to dance... _properly_."

"That's not true—I can do a mean Macarena," I bragged. "Did they ever teach you the Cha-Cha slide?"

When she looked at me oddly, I wondered if I should have even said anything. My face only burned a little more.

"Okay, now you spin."

"Spin?" I repeated.

"Spin! Weeeee!" Gertrude sang, taking my hand over my head and forcing me into a twirl, then just as quickly, she pulled me back into the three-step count.

"Oswald!" I called.

"You're doing well, Sylvia!" Oswald responded teasingly, "just remember: 'one, two, three'!"

Gertrude winked at her son before turning me again.

The violinists were giggling on the stage as they continued the waltzing music. I was only growing more nervous, and for reasons I could not explain. It was so very odd: I didn't mind cutting Timothy the Umbrella Boy in half but the idea of stepping on Gertrude's toes scared the shit out of me.

"If nothing else, you keep in mind," Gertrude mentored. " _You_ never lead. The man leads."

"What if I want to lead?" I countered.

"In this day and age, no one leads," she all but grumbled. "In old times, _men_ led. You are a woman—you don't lead the dance. You lead in _other_ things."

"Well, that's a little provocative," I started but she interrupted with "And, _spin! Weeeee!_ "

I made an effort and sang, "Weee' with her although mine came out shakier and more nervous.

"At the end of the dance, you dip," said Gertrude.

"Dip?" I repeated.

"Yes. You tip back."

"I thought you said _dip_ , not 'tip'."

"I did," Gertrude returned.

Oswald chuckled as Gertrude looked at me with just as much confusion when I didn't understand her meaning.

"I'll show her," said Oswald, standing in front of me.

"Such a _good_ son. You show her how it's done," Gertrude said proudly, patting his cheek. She smiled at Gabe, saying, "You want to try?"

He nodded respectively.

Oswald held out his hand, palm up, and I bit my bottom lip when I took it. Giddiness suddenly shunned all the nervousness from my brain. He pulled me close to him, slow and gentle; as learned from Gertrude, I placed my other hand on his shoulder. He smelled nice—like cologne and soap.

His unoccupied hand slid along my lower back, fingers spread. I felt completely hypnotized as he said, "When I tilt you back, your foot farthest from me goes up; the other one will stay grounded."

"If you say so, Mr. Penguin," I said softly, winking at him.

Oswald snickered as he tilted me back. Unused to the dip and loss of gravity, my hand on his shoulder immediately gripped him as I gasped when my head fell back (although gracefully); I felt like I was hanging upside down, and was looking in the direction of the night club's entrance. He pulled me back up and I smiled at him.

"Let's do it again," I said eagerly.

"As you wish." He said, making me blush.

We slow danced, slowly moving our hips in rhythm; a sweet, slow swaying so he didn't have to move his knees as much. In some ways, dancing with Oswald was similar to making love. He had the same intense gaze as he took in my every reaction.

So mesmerizing, so _fucking_ handsome. God, now I really wanted him. Fucking mother of….

"I can see your mom being a dancer in the past," I said, looking over Oswald's shoulder to see Gertrude teaching Gabe the step-count (anything to ignore the burning need between my legs). "She could be an instructor."

"She only teaches those who she considers worth her time," Oswald returned.

"Well, I should definitely feel honored."

Oswald said playfully, "So you should."

"And I do," I returned, half-seriously. "Dancing with me in front of your mother—that's a nice honor too. Before you know it, I'll be sitting on your lap."

"One step at a time," Oswald cautioned.

I gave our feet a glance, and snorted, " _Literally_."

He dipped me back. I squeaked, and started laughing as I was back to looking at the doorway, upside down, the world spinning. But this time, a figure was standing a few feet away from me; Oswald noticed too, looking up.

"Jim!" He said, smiling widely.

He guided me back up so I could stand comfortably on my feet. Jim looked awkward, but attempted a friendly smile as Oswald welcomed him. Just as soon as he had come in, Gertrude noticed and she strolled leisurely over to us.

"Another _handsome_ man at the party," Gertrude cooed. "I am so lucky."

Ah, so she liked Jim—that was a positive thing!

Oswald introduced him: "This is Jim Gordon, the detective I've been telling you about."

"So nice to meet a friend of Oswald's," Gertrude said sweetly and slyly she said to him, "I'm Gertrude Kapelput."

 _Ah…. she likes-likes Jim._

Oswald and I exchanged looks as Jim glanced at me uncomfortably before he took Gertrude's pre-offered hand and swiftly kissed the back of it.

"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Kapelput."

 _Awkward._

"Uh Mother, Jim and I have some very important business," Oswald said gently, and he coaxed her back to Gabe as she muttered, "Oh so sad, so sad".

Gabe quickly pulled her into another little dance and I watched them briefly before turning to see Jim looking at us oddly.

"It's a little early to be celebrating, don't you think?" He muttered.

"Well don't just stand there. Sit," Oswald said, ignoring his warning, and gestured to one of the tables.

Jim protested, "This won't take long."  
"I insist. _Sit_." Oswald said eagerly.

Jim did as he was asked, but gave me a glance as soon as he sat.

"What?" I demanded. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Are you sure you should be here? He and I are talking," said Jim.

"And your point is?" I retorted.

He began to protest.

"Don't worry, Jim. Sylvia is in regular attendance for these types of discussions," Oswald said calmly, glancing at me with an endearing smile.

"That's not very reassuring," Jim said, looking at me pointedly.

"Whatever business you have to discuss with him, you can discuss in front of me," I said smoothly, taking my own seat beside him and crossing one leg over the other.

Jim gave Oswald a look.

Oswald said comfortably, "She means well."

"Well, I don't want her overhearing." Jim emphasized bitterly, glancing at me once more.

"Then you best speak _very_ quietly so I don't hear you," I cautioned.

Seeing that I was a lost cause, Jim surrendered.

Oswald smiled at the two of us before turning to him: "I'm so very glad you called, Jim Gordon. It has been too long since we last saw each other. I was thinking you might have forgotten about me."

"How _can_ I," Jim muttered as he sent a bitter smile towards me, which I returned ever so sarcastically. He said to Oswald, "I need a favor."

And Oswald's face just lit up with glee.

"Do you know a Narcotics Detective by the name of Arnold Flass?" Jim queried.

Oswald nodded, "I've heard the name."

"I'm investigating him and his crew for murder, but I've hit a wall. He's too well-connected. I figured since Don Maroni runs the drug trade, you could find somebody with the goods on Flass. But—"

"Shh!" Oswald hushed. "Say no more. Favor is done. I'll make some calls."

"And what do I owe you in return?" Jim asked suspiciously.

"Friends don't owe friends, silly," Oswald said, smiling happily. "They just do things because they want to. Because they're friends."

"Nobody gets hurt," Jim said firmly.

"Of course. No one gets hurt," Oswald reaffirmed.

And when the deal was struck, Oswald smiled again and he offered to commemorate the occasion with a toast of champagne.

XxXxXx

"So, you're part of this kind of work now, are you?" Jim questioned as he and I watched Oswald fulfill his promise to his mother by dancing with her. It was another slow dance, they kept a reasonable amount of space between them.

Jim and I stood as he drank his glass of champagne.

"Well, not to drag your name in the mud, but _you_ are the one who came to him for this kind of **work** ," I reasoned coolly.

"Are you going to be the one he sends to get information on Flass?" Jim grumbled.

"No."

"He's told you already?" Jim asked, glancing at me.

"You're interrogating me again," I reminded him as I poured a glass of champagne for myself. "And you know how much I despise that."

"That's not an answer."

"No," I answered clearly. "I'm not going to be the one who gets the goods on Flass, but not for reasons you would think."

"What reasons do you have?" questioned Jim, glancing at my attire. "You're not exactly dressed for the occasional mugging."

"I'm so happy my work amuses you," I said sarcastically. "But don't worry about me: I can kill a man just as easily in a dress as I could in a jumpsuit."

"Nice to know," said Jim, rolling his eyes.

Sensing my irritation, he dropped the topic.

"Do I want to know what I walked into earlier?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know. _Do_ you?"

"I'm honestly afraid to ask."

"Well," I sighed, "at least you're honest."

Oswald finished his dance with his mother, who had resumed her little dance with Gabe, her favorite student, and she began to sway to the violin's slow, melodic tune.

Jim suddenly jumped and I startled, looking quickly at him. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his pants, glanced at the caller ID and sighed, "I have to go."

He kissed my cheek saying, "I'll see you later."

"Yep."

He left quickly without another word to anyone else. Oswald looked at me curiously, and I shrugged.

"Work, probably."

"I see," Oswald mused, smiling. "He's a busy man, isn't he?"

"I've never known him to be any other way," I said casually, before drinking the rest of my champagne, then I poured another glass, adding with an afterthought: "I met with Victor."

Oswald's ears perked at the name.

"Or rather," I said quietly, "he met _me._ In the middle of the night….in my apartment."

Oswald narrowed his eyes, saying with an edge to his tone, "Should I be concerned?"

"It wasn't anything like that," I said coolly. "Strictly business. But I think it's interesting that your first thought was one of infidelity. Rest assured, if I ever have the urge to cheat on you, _you_ will be the first to know."

"How thoughtful," Oswald said with a sarcastic smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Of course, I never would do such a thing," I comforted, rubbing his shoulder. "You know that."

I leaned in and kissed him. But he didn't reciprocate. Not yet defeated, I pushed my lips against his bottom lip, my hand on his shoulder fell to his chest; taking the collar of his jacket, I pulled him closer to me.

"You _do_ know that, don't you?" I murmured, looking at him reproachfully.

Oswald glanced at me. I couldn't even begin to wonder what was going through that beautiful brain of his but whatever suspicions, whatever the paranoia he was feeling seemed to break down and my insistent display of affection pulled him through it. His eyes—shining brilliantly in the red lighting above—only appeared that much more soulful. And it felt like he was searching my own, to seek out the ever smallest lie. I cradled his face in my hands.

"Forgive me if I think badly of you," Oswald said quietly. "But I _have_ seen the way other people look at you."

"And do you see how I look at them?" I returned patiently. "I don't see them. I only see you."

He turned his head ever so slightly so he nuzzled my palm with his mouth, kissing my right hand.

"Remember, Ozzie," I said softly. "I may be a pigeon—but I am _your_ pigeon.I am unobtainable to everyone _else_. They can look at me all they want, they can fantasize about me all they like, and they can try to sweep me off my feet. I only see you; everyone else is just wallpaper because at the end of the day, my heart, my body, and my mind belong to **you**."

Oswald nodded, and seeing that reassurance, I smiled. He kissed me again. And it was only broken naturally when we glanced up to see that Gertrude had taken to the stage and started dancing, a small sway here and a twirl there.

"You said you had business with Victor?" Oswald asked, his voice business-like and casual once again.

"Regarding that proposition you mentioned earlier in the hospital," I said, nodding. "He wants to train me, to make me a professional killer."

"And did you find out what **he** wants in return?" Oswald questioned calmly, although there was still a possessive edge to his tone.

"He wants nothing **I** can give him," I explained. "More or less—He's just looking forward to the bragging rights, to say that he taught me. Apparently, he thinks I can be one hell of a threat."

"Are you thinking of doing it?"

"If it makes me sharper, deadlier—then I'm all in." I admitted.

Oswald looked reluctant to speak about my working with Victor. His lips were pressed together tightly, and he said nothing in return. His silence wasn't reassuring. I touched his jacket, fidgeting with the little buttons, and moved myself closer to him.

Oswald thought for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"When do you start?" Oswald asked.

"Couple hours. Or, at least, that's the plan," I said gently. "Falcone wants Victor to check on Bob, make sure everything's ship-shape. Victor wants me to come along, a job orientation, so to speak."

Oswald placed his hands around mine, and he avoided my gaze. His jaw flexed.

"I _want_ this," I implored. "I never have wanted to do something so badly in my entire life. But I don't want there to be any bad blood between _us_."

He was silent.

I said softly, "Do you trust me?"

He kissed my hand and said, "I trust you, Pigeon."

"Thank you," I said, grinning.

"Anything for you," Oswald promised. "Do you have to go home and change?"

"Yeah," I said reluctantly. "Do you need me to bring your mom back or anything?"

"No, I'll ask Gabe to do it. She seems to have grown fond of him."

"Do you need anything from me?"

"Just be careful, Sylvia," said Oswald seriously.

"Will do," I said.

I left the club to change out of my outfit and into something—as Victor instructed—with a different flair.

A/N: *The phrase ' _Mein Lamm'_ is German for 'My Lamb'.


	7. Bob Is Dead, Flass Is Arrested

Chapter Seven: Bob Is Dead/ Flass Is Arrested

A/N: :) Another chapter for you, lovelies!

* * *

I wore comfortable jeans, a purple tank top under a black leather jacket, and even more comfortable tennis shoes. I painted my eyelids with periwinkle eye shadow and winged eyeliner. Seeing this new image of myself in the mirror only sharpened my confidence. My ginger locks were pulled into a ponytail; damn hair had grown past my shoulders over the year and I still hadn't decided whether or not I should cut it. Around that time, there was a knock on the door.

"It's open!"

Upon my command, my guests entered.

Victor led two women inside. I looked at them curiously, lowering my hands to my side as Victor closed the door. He was dressed in his usual black leather attire, and his female counterparts mirrored him in the same style.

"Sylvia," greeted Victor, "these are my girls: JJ and Al. Girls, Sylvia."

JJ was an Asian girl, standing at or a little taller than my height. She had one heavily marked eyebrow; the other was shaved off; a great deal of her body was covered in leather with the exception of her face and her legs, wearing fishnets instead, and impressive combat boots. Presenting herself to me, she didn't smile and she remained poised, her hands interlaced behind her back, like a soldier.

Al was Mixed, with beautiful bronze skin, and a buzzed caramel-colored hair cut; she wore a black pantsuit and the V-line cut deeply into her valley, showing off the soft outline of her breasts. This woman wore a dragon-shaped earring on her left ear; the right had three piercings in her earlobe. Like the other one, she didn't smile either.

Both women carried handguns.

"You'll see them from time to time," said Victor smoothly, indicating the girls.

"They're not full-time?" I asked skeptically, glancing at JJ.

"I have a life outside of homicide," said JJ, smirking.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I freelance as a hit-woman," she said.

I stared at her.

"Isn't that the same thing?" I asked, looking at Victor quizzically.

"No," she answered.

"Well then…." I muttered uneasily. "I'm sorry if I offended you."

"You didn't," JJ assured firmly. "I get plenty of contracts but Victor gets the more interesting ones. So I just go for the ride."

"Huh. What about you?" I asked Al.

She grinned pleasantly saying, "I have a bakery."

"Where?"

"Outside of Gotham." Al answered vaguely.

"Cool, I can dig that," I said charmingly.

"Tell us about you," JJ said coolly. "What do you do?"

"Nothing much," I said, shrugging. "I organize staff work schedules in a restaurant owned by my fiance….and occasionally work for Maroni, but—"

JJ and Al immediately raised their guns to me.

"Whoa…." Victor warned, and he placed a hand on their arms, lowering their weapons as the girls looked at me suspiciously. "What did I just finish saying? She's on our team, ladies, remember?"

"I guess you don't like Maroni," I said smoothly, crossing my arms. I looked at Victor saying, "You didn't tell them who I was _before_ introducing us?"

Victor smirked saying, "I thought it would be fun."

"Glad you're happy then," I scoffed, walking into the kitchen to pour myself a drink just to take the edge off.

If I was going to be working with trigger-fingered women, I was going to need a little extra encouragement _not_ to hurt them.

Victor frowned and took the wine bottle from my hands and placed it on top of the refrigerator.

"Why the hell did you do that?" I demanded curtly, glaring at him. "You can't just take shit out of my hands—that's fucking rude."

"I need you _sober,_ Sylvia," Victor said strictly. He took the bottle and placed it on the lowest shelf in my refrigerator, closing the door. "And I didn't tell them you were working for Maroni, because last I checked, you _didn't_."

"I don't, but I prefer for him to think that I do," I said, shrugging. "I figure I might as well conform to the idea while I can still play ignorant."

Victor chuckled darkly, "That's stupid."

"Well, sue me." I sighed, leaning against the refrigerator. "The longer he thinks I am playing his game, the safer I am."

" _Don't_ you work for Maroni?" JJ asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Honestly, no."

"Then who do you work for?"

"Technically? Oswald."

"Who?"

"Oh right," I muttered. "You don't know him by that name. Sorry. I work for Penguin for the most part."

Al laughed, " _That_ little creep? Why—"

I yanked a counter drawer open, grabbed a steak knife, and shoved the blade against her neck, my other hand behind her head to keep her in place. Three seconds following, JJ cocked her gun, aiming it at me, while Victor didn't react; instead, he seemed content to lean against the kitchen counter.

"Whoa…." Al mumbled as she tried to step back, but I kept her in place.

"Do _not_ **ever** insult Penguin in front of me….." I said dangerously.

"She didn't know," Victor drawled. "Just let her off with a warning, all right?"

"Fine."

I tossed the knife into the sink.

"There ya go," Victor said, grinning. "Now aren't we all just happy friends again?"

JJ and Al glared at me. I crossed my arms, looking at Victor, who checked his watch before saying, "All right—It's show time!"

I followed him while the others kept a close eye on me.

 _One Hour Later_

I wrinkled my nose at the warehouse that Victor had driven us to. From the outside, it was nothing impressive. I didn't know what I had been expecting, but it certainly had destroyed any imagination of a torture chamber.

"Falcone sent Fish _here_?" I asked Victor as I followed him into the building.

"He's a simple man, really." He said monotonously. "Doesn't really ask for much."

I glanced up at the ceiling. There were chains hanging from the beams. I didn't want to ponder why they were up so high. JJ and Al followed on either side of Victor; I, on the other hand, kept my distance. Under a swinging circular lamp was a body on the floor and no one in the chair.

As we approached, the man stirred. He was face-down.

Victor stuck out his boot and turned the man on his back.

He was bleeding from the nose and looked like he had gotten beaten up by a downgraded version of the Hulk.

"Oh my," Victor drawled sarcastically. "What happened here?"

"Call…." The man struggled. "Call Falcone."

Victor said pointedly, "No kidding" before he shot the guy in the head. He turned to me. "That was Bob."

"I gathered that," I replied glancing at the now-dead body of the torturer. "Which means Fish is gone."

"Yep," sighed Victor. "Falcone isn't going to like that."

"Fuck him. No disrespect," I said quickly when Victor glared at me. "But we need to find Oswald. Fish is vengeful and she'll be looking for him. And I know where he is."

Victor wordlessly agreed and he followed me out to the car. I held out my hand for the key and he gave it to me. The girls crawled into the back seat and their doors were not even shut before I revved the engine and smashed my foot on the accelerator.

Victor glanced at me, observing my pursed lips and trembling hands as I drove.

"I can feel you staring at me," I said, my voice shaking. "What?"

Victor said with much dread, "You're not going to get all needy and worried on me, are you?"

We were back at the club in half the time it had taken to drive to the warehouse. I pulled my own gun out from the back of my jeans, looking at Victor pointedly.

"Fish wants to kill Oswald. I'm not worried." I cocked my gun. "I'm fucking pissed."

Victor grinned widely as he got out of the car with me and they followed me into the club. I was several feet ahead (thank god for wearing shoes instead of heels). When we arrived, I saw Oswald on his knees in front of Fish Mooney and her gorilla cohort, Butch Gilzean. Fish wielded a metal bat and she pulled it back behind her to swing.

Coming up behind me, Victor shot his gun at the ceiling. Fish and Butch looked behind them in surprise. Seeing me, Fish gritted her teeth in hatred.

"Looks like 'Mooney's' is the place to be," Victor said pointedly.

And a fire war started. Bullets flying. People dodging from tables, to walls, to chairs. It was almost a miracle that Oswald didn't get caught in the cross fire. In less than a minute, Fish and Butch were on their feet and out the back door. Victor looked at me.

"Coming?" He asked, gesturing for the girls to follow.

"I'm staying behind in case anything else happens," I said breathlessly, reloading my gun.

"Suit yourself," Victor said, shrugging.

He left with the girls to go after Fish. From the ground, Oswald looked up at me like he wasn't sure how I had gotten here and why, perhaps, had I come, armed and dangerous with Victor as my back-up. I smiled simply at him, holding out my hand to help him up. He took it and sat in the nearest chair, rubbing his face. There was a nearly empty bottle of Chardonnay on the table; I poured the rest of it in a glass, and handed it to him.

"Are you okay, Ozzie?" I asked gently, sitting and then leaning back in my chair, opposite of him.

"I'm fine," Oswald answered briskly.

He tossed the drink back, setting the glass on the surface.

"Partying hard, huh?" I asked.

"I _was_ ," Oswald grumbled, glaring at the back door where Fish had disappeared. He glanced at me: "I'm assuming 'Bob' is dead?"

"Dead as dead can get."

"What's the point of being 'the best in the business' if he's so easy to put down?" Oswald questioned harshly, glaring at the empty glass.

"Well, hopefully Victor will take care of her."

"Yes. Hopefully." Oswald muttered. Still glaring. Then he said to me, "You were with Victor the entire time?"

"I said I would be."

"How did he know to come here?" Oswald asked.

"I led them here," I remarked. "When I saw that Bob was disarmed—"

"—I thought he was dead—"

"—That came after," I corrected. "He was alive when we were there, but only barely. Victor shot him."

"Why did he do that?" asked Oswald.

"Loose ends?" I guessed, crossing my leg over the other. "I don't know. Maybe he just wanted to kill the guy. Bob didn't do his job; he let Fish escape, so I think Victor did the guy a favor. If he hadn't killed him, Falcone would have."

"And if Victor doesn't get Fish back?" Oswald questioned.

I shrugged saying, "I can't determine what will happen. If she's smart, she won't come back. She has no men, no land, and Falcone wants her dead."

Oswald nodded slowly, taking in the information. A moment passed as he observed my attire.

"What are you wearing?" Oswald questioned, gesturing to my clothes.

I said carelessly, "I threw it together at home. I was going to wear the cliché with boots and leggings, but I tried it once and never did it again. Besides, I can't run in heels. But everything tends to happen in its own time."

Oswald sighed, "I have a feeling you're trying to tell me something."

"I am."

"Then _please_ , get to the point!" Oswald hissed, rubbing his temples.

"I will in my own time." I said calmly, although his snappy remarks were getting hard to ignore.

"Oh for the love of—"

I interrupted him as I continued with my story and he sat back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.

"In my senior year of high school, I went to the prom. I had on this long dress, and I wore stilettos. While drinking punch with a few of my lady friends, some fucker came up behind me, slapped my ass. I saw his face only for a few seconds, so I tried running after him." I narrated.

"Did you catch him?"

"Not initially," I answered.

"Then **why** , pray tell, are you telling me this!" Oswald said impatiently. "If this is some metaphor to explain how to deal with Mooney, would you just _skip_ it and get to the conclusion?"

" _No_." I chided, leaning forward. "I will _not_ skip it. Now" (I continued, regaining my patience) "….As I was saying, I didn't catch him—not initially. Too many people in the crowd, the lights were terrible. I was pissed off, of course. But—as I have said already—everything happens in its own time. I nearly forgot about it until a few days later, I happened to walk in the same hallway as him. And I recognized his face. I could have beat his ass in the hallway—no one was there to stop me. But I had other ideas. So in the middle of the class, in the hallway, I started screaming. When one of our teachers came out, he asked what had happened I told him the guy had groped me—sexually assaulted me."

Oswald stopped staring at the ceiling and looked at me, startled.

"It also helped that he was eighteen while I was seventeen, so he became a sex offender for touching a minor."

Oswald stared at me saying, "So the point of the story is….?"

I sighed, "The _point_ of the story is that Fish may have evaded _now._ But karma's a bitch. She'll get what she deserves. Until then, don't worry about it."

He gave me a look.

" _That's_ your point? _That's_ your advice? 'Don't worry about it'?"

I stood to my feet and took his hand and said, "Come with me."

"Where are we going?" Oswald demanded.

"Home," I answered. "You drank a whole bottle of wine, you're inebriated, and therefore, you're tired and irritated, so I'm bringing you home to sleep it off."

"I am not _drunk_!"

"Don't argue with me, Oz. I've had a very long day," I cautioned, pulling him up to his feet.

"You _are not_ taking me anywhere. I'm staying right here," he pouted, sitting back down.

"You're acting like a child."

"If I'm acting like a child, then that makes you a pedophile and I will damned if I am going _anywhere_ with a sexual deviant," Oswald retorted.

I raised my eyebrows at him. I hadn't expected _that_ response, anything but that honestly. And it had taken me by surprise.

"Come with me, Oswald." I attempted a gentler approach, taking his hand. He gave me the dirtiest look possible.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You can just leave."

 _Kind approach is out the window._

"You can _not_ sit here all night. You're coming with me whether you like it or not." I said sternly. "And trust me—it will not be the first time I have had to drag my family out of a club."

"Unhand me, woman!"

I started taking his arm and he started cursing like a storm.

"You can say all you want, babe, but watch the tone," I warned.

"I'll talk to you how I _want_ to talk to you!" Oswald hissed.

I glared at him and he glared right back.

"All right….I guess I'm dragging you." I sighed reluctantly.

I took his arm and pulled him out of the club. After fighting for a few minutes, he surrendered Despite his grumpy attitude, he allowed me to lead him out of the restaurant and I drove home.

XxXxXx

Oswald was sound asleep under the covers. He was mumbling, but the words weren't recognizable. He turned on his side, pulling my pillow closer to him and nuzzled it. I closed the bedroom door with the smallest 'click'.

I had arrived at the GCPD station only a half-hour after putting Oswald to bed, and the station itself was like a home away from home. There wasn't much order there since the Waynes had been killed, but despite the corruption of the police and other officials, it was still home. First entering, I saw several people crowding a desk, like they just _couldn't_ step away. They surrounded a large, stocky fellow who had a great deal of facial hair and smelled like cheap musk.

I held a tray carrier with three coffees and as I walked by, the man spoke to me in a grating voice.

"You got a nice wiggle there, baby."

I stopped and turned.

"Detective Flass," I greeted politely.

"Ooh," he drawled. "You know my name, huh? I don't know yours. I don't think we've been properly introduced."

His cop buddies around him snickered.

"You don't need an introduction," I replied coolly. "And even if you did, I am certain I would not want it."

Flass raised his eyebrows.

"Ah, I recognize that hateful tone," Flass chuckled. He bounced himself off the desk and strode towards me. " _You_ must be the mutt's sister."

I dropped my polite facade immediately.

"I beg your pardon?" I remarked curtly.

"I heard you can be a bit of an ice queen."

I scoffed before rolling my eyes and walking away. I saw Jim sitting at his desk and placed a coffee on it, smiling when he looked at me with surprise.

"Thanks," he said gratefully.

"No problem. Where's Nygma?" I asked. "I got him one."

"Forensics Lab," Jim replied.

"Thanks."

"Sylvia…."

I looked at him, stepping back.

He said sincerely, "How have you been?"

"Fair. You?"

"Fine."

"Is that all?" I asked curiously. "No arguments to be had? No cases to discuss?"

He patted my hand saying, "Sometimes I just want to check on you. Isn't that what brothers do?"

"They do," I confirmed. "But it's odd when you do it."

I patted his head with my free hand, walking on as he looked after me curiously.

I opened the door to the forensics lab and saw Edward Nygma sitting on a stool, wearing his usual lab jacket, looking through a microscope at what appeared to be his lunch. Curious, I strode over to him and placed a latte in front of him. He glanced up and smiled.

"You know," I said smoothly, "if you told the guy to leave out the onions, they'd probably indulge you."

"Surgically removing them can be quite relaxing," Nygma quipped.

I took a seat beside him, asking, "So how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"The poetry—you know, with Kristin?" I offered to jog his mind. "How did it go?"

"Well," sighed Nygma. "First, I was excited when I gave Ms. Kringle the letter, and in between the moment I handed it off and the time she read it, I bounced between hopeful optimism and suicidal pessimism. I was humiliated when I found Detective Flass and his colleagues mocking my poem I had given to Ms. Kringle..."

"Edward, I'm so—"

"Wait," said Nygma quickly. "I'm not finished."

"Oh…?"

"As I was sitting here, Ms. Kringle visited me and apologized for the hideous display and said that my poem was, in a word, 'thoughtful'." Nygma finished, smiling at me.

I stared at him.

"So…." I began slowly, "how do you feel now?"

Nygma let out a sigh and said happily, "Pretty good!"

"Oh, good!" I congratulated, patting his shoulder. "I'm so happy for you."

" **This is not your house**!"

Nygma and I glanced at each other, startled, and then as we heard the commotion coming from the main lobby, we both headed out of the office to see what it was about. He remained on the balcony while I walked out, looking on.

Jim stood in front of Detective Flass, who looked at him like Jim was already defeated.

"This isn't your house," Jim repeated, his voice was hard. "You're a drug dealer and a murderer. You don't belong here. You don't deserve the badge."

Flass snickered, looking at his cop buddies, all of whom were grinning like simpering fools. I crossed my arms, side-stepping a few officers who looked as though they might rally with Jim.

"Can you believe this crap?" Flass said skeptically. "How long have you been here? A few months? Why don't you come preach to me in five years?"

 _Jim equals 'challenge accepted'._

My brother turned to the rest of the audience, all of the police in and out of uniform who were watching the scene unfold.

"He murdered Leon Winkler!" Jim addressed everyone. "An innocent man who **trusted** us! Who trusted _this_!" He held up his own badge.

And a few of the officers nodded in agreement, murmuring.

"Enough to step forward," Jim continued, looking at Flass disgustedly, "to help us solve a case. A man who died so Detective Flass could protect himself."

"IA ruled it a suicide," Flass dared to remind them.

Jim announced to the station: "I'm arresting this man."

Flass hissed, "You get out of here. I'm _protected_."

"You can help me or you can try and stop me either way," Jim continued as though he hadn't heard Flass, "I'm doing my duty."

Three officers stepped forward to Jim's rally.

Flass immediately became defensive, snapping, "Hey! Back off! I'm protected!"

"Shut up, Flass."

I raised my eyebrows, surprised as Jim who turned to see Captain Essen approaching, saying, "Arnold Flass, you're under arrest for murder."

As she cuffed him, Flass was protesting the entire time, even as Alvarez read him his rights. Watching Flass get put behind bars made me smile. The others who were resentfully eyeing my brother slowly backed off and went somewhere else to chill. I looked at them all then patted Jim on the back.

"You're just taking them down one fucker at a time, aren't you, Jimmy?" I said, grinning widely.

"If you're not careful, you might be in there with him," said Jim half-seriously.

"Don't worry about _me._ I have my bases covered. Besides…." I leaned forward and challenged, "if you had a pair _that_ big, you'd have arrested me a long time ago. Enjoy your coffee."

He caught my wrist and I sighed tiredly.

"I'm being serious," said Jim. "And watch your back. Flass has a lot of powerful people backing him…."

"Like the Commissioner?" I suggested.

"Probably higher than that."

I smirked saying, "Like I said, I have my bases covered. No need to worry."

"You sound confident."

"That's because I am," I told him. "Do you know why?"

Jim waited.

"I have you for a brother, a one-of-a-kind friendship with Victor Zsasz, _and_ I am engaged to Don Maroni's right-hand man. No one is coming after **me**. Now, if you'll excuse me, as fun as this day has been for me, I have to get home to my fiance. Good work arresting that guy," I congratulated. "Serves him right for making a pass at me."

"Pass? When did he make a pass at you—"

"Good night, James!" I called over my shoulder on my way out.


	8. Maroni Knows

Chapter Eight: Maroni Knows

A/N: _ **TRIGGER WARNING**_ : There's a very graphic, very disturbing scene in this chapter that all should be aware of (between my main character and another OC). If you have ever experienced sexual assault and/or rape and are triggered by such scenes, I request and encourage you to bypass the scene (you'll know when it's coming). Of note, I do _not_ condone rape as it is illegal, and I find it repulsive. It was placed in my story for character development of both my OC and Oswald and for future plot purposes. Please, read at your own discretion. (For what it's worth, Sylvia gets revenge in the same chapter.)

* * *

Cracking eggs over a pan….the sound of bacon sizzling….the smell of buttery, flaky biscuits baking in the oven.

Breakfast was no doubt my favorite time of the day, especially first thing in the morning. It was close to eight o'clock. I was dressed for work in a knee-high black skirt and a red-long sleeve shirt. I woke up in such a wonderful mood, I had even taken it upon myself to wear three-inch heels—I doubted I would be running anywhere at work.

Shania Twain's ' _Man! I Feel Like A Woman_ ' was playing on the stereo and I wiggled my hips to the extra dancy parts while being careful _not_ to flip the bacon into the ceiling. In the bathroom, I heard the shower turn on; Oswald must have woken up.

I started _really_ getting into the song and when I flung my egg out the window, I had to stop and put my priorities back in order while I giggled, turning off the stove.

Oswald came into the kitchen, looking at me oddly.

"You're never this happy in the morning," Oswald noted, standing next to the table.

I turned off the stereo via the remote, sitting the latter on the counter and grinned widely at him. His suspicious remarks made me chuckle.

I placed a plate of breakfast in front of him, and asked, "Milk or orange juice?"

"Either one," Oswald muttered, sitting down.

I placed a glass of milk in front of him while I sat at the table as well.

"Aren't you going to eat?" He asked.

"No," I returned, smiling. "I've already eaten."

"When did you get up?"

"I've been up for a while."

Oswald looked at me curiously, saying, "I didn't even hear you come to bed last night."

"No, you didn't." I reassured. "I visited a friend at the GCPD and then came home shortly after. I didn't want to disturb you, so I slept on the couch."

"Friend?"

"I gave him some friendly advice on how to get his lady crush to notice him," I explained, sitting back in my seat. "He's been pining after this records custodian for a while now. I figured I'd help the love blossoms bloom quicker than later."

Oswald ate a bite of pancakes, listening to me.

"What do you get out of it?" Oswald questioned.

"Get out of what?"

"What do you get in exchange for helping this friend of yours?" He clarified.

"It's like you told Jim, honey. Friends don't owe favors. They help each other out because they're friends." I reminded. "Edward is a shy type. He works in Forensics, deals with a lot of the nitty gritty. Doesn't have many friends. The police officers regard him as a loser, but I think there's more to him than what meets the eye."

I added as an afterthought while smiling at Oswald, "Reminds me of you, actually."

Oswald glanced up at me pointedly.

I rounded to the counter and collected myself a cup of coffee, pouring milk halfway to the brim and added a shot of expresso. Then I returned to my seat.

"By the way," I said conversationally. "Jim says 'thank you'."

Oswald ate a bite of egg and then said, "For what?"

"For finding the stuff your guy found on Flass. You sent Gabe, didn't you?"

"Well, I had no other person to send seeing as _you_ had other plans, remember?" Oswald reminded calmly. Then with a spark of anticipation, he asked, "But it did help?"

"Yes," I confirmed, ignoring the first comment. "Flass was arrested. It was pretty dramatic how it went down, but none the less, he is behind bars. I wouldn't hold your breath though. Flass is highly connected. He'll get a slap on the wrist, some months in prison—but it won't be Blackgate."

I took a sip of my coffee.

 _Fucking Christ—IT'S HOT LAVA!_

I pursed my lips, swirling the hot coffee in my mouth—luckily, it cooled down a few degrees before it burned my throat on the way down. Oswald snickered when I coughed, my eyes watering.

When I continued to cough, he grew worried.

"Are you okay?" Oswald asked.

I took a napkin from the center of the table and wiped my mouth.

"Fine," I said weakly.

My face faded back to its original color instead of purple-red. When he was certain that I was all right, he glanced at my over all appearance.

"Are you going to the restaurant?" Oswald asked.

"Yes. I have to rearrange the schedules," I replied. "Billy wants Thanksgiving off."

"And that requires a one-on-one meeting?"

"If you don't think so, you don't know your staff members very well, Mr. Cobblepot," I teased, smiling so. I stood to my feet, smoothed down my skirt, and poured the rest of the hot lava in the sink.

"Finished?" I asked, gesturing to his empty plate.

"Quite."

I took it and placed it in the sink, and started scrubbing dishes. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and I startled, only realizing then that he stood behind me. He ignored my flinching movement and ran his hands down my back, circling them around my hips. Then his arms wrapped around me. He pulled my shirt a little ways away so he kissed my shoulder, his soft lips touching the exposed skin.

"Trying to start something?" I asked knowingly.

"What do you think?"

" _I think_ you are up to no good. Is this going to be part of the morning routine?"

Oswald stated in a tone of matter-of-fact, "I would have done this last night but you never came to bed."

I continued washing dishes, pretending that I couldn't feel his hands lightly grazing up my sides and back down. Pretending that I didn't feel his fingers slipping under my shirt and doing the same, caressing my breasts over the material of my bra. I heard him sigh in my ear, his breath on my skin made the heat rise in my face.

 _Wash these damn dishes, girl—_

He lifted one of my breasts out of the bra cup and kneaded its hardened nipple between his fingers.

"Someone's horny, isn't he?" I taunted while I tried to ignore the growing ache between my legs than I knew only he would be able to relieve.

"You wore a skirt and heels first thing in the morning," Oswald told me huskily, "how do you expect me to respond?"

"I didn't realize that was a quick turn-on for you," I teased. "I should wear them more often."

His hand continued to play with my nipple, rolling it between his fingers. I stifled the moan that dared to slip out. With his free hand, he pushed all of my hair to the opposite shoulder so he could press his lips against my neck. His hips pushed against mine, and I felt his erection nudge between the back of my thighs; then he did it again, and again, starting a slow grind between them; inadvertently, I started spreading my legs; my attention divided from the dishes and refocused on every kiss he planted on my neck, one hand caressing my breast, the other digging into my hip to keep me in place.

The neglected running water from the sink faucet only seemed to reaffirm what he already knew: Oswald had me in the palm of his hand.

But he was in the palm of mine too.

I shoved my ass against him, and he groaned, confirming my mischievous suspicions.

His hand that had been teasing my breast dropped to the hem of my skirt, hiking it up above my waist. He leaned forward, pinning my body between his and the counter.

He grabbed my hair and yanked it to the right so my head craned to the left; he looked at me with dilated eyes.

"You enjoy being teased, don't you, Pet?" Oswald's lustful tones spoke volumes in my ear, and his shallow breaths made a pleasurable chill run down my back and tease my loins.

When I didn't respond, he pulled my hair even harder.

"Yes, yes, I do!" I gasped, wincing in pain.

His lips turned upward into a smug grin. He let go of my hair and placed his hand around my neck, his thumb stroking my throat; the other slipped between my legs, the pads of his fingers rubbing circles over the front of my panties.

"Oswald, I…."

"Hush."

I bit my bottom lip gingerly when he nudged his fingers into the fabric, teasing my wet pussy with the possibility of entry. He still kept me pinned between himself and the sink.

"Oz…."

"I said 'hush'." Oswald said, his voice more commanding than before.

"But…."

"I won't say it again," he warned. "Now, turn around."

He lowered his hands so that I could do what I was told. I was ready to smart off, to retort with some type of asinine response but the comment was lost on me when I met his eyes. They were brilliantly bright, and yet, his pupils were full blown. Dilated with lust.

"I love you, Sylvia." He said gently.

"I love you too," I said breathlessly.

While he pulled his pants down just enough for his cock to spring out, his hand moved up my skirt and pulled them halfway down my legs. I quickly stepped out of them, and then braced myself on the sink when he moved forward. One of my legs lifted, and I placed the crook of my ankle on top of a nearby kitchen chair.

His cock touched the entrance of my pussy, the head nudging teasingly.

" _Now_ who's the horny one," Oswald taunted as he slowly slid his cock into my wet walls.

"You were the one with the hard-on digging against my back earlier," I muttered, smirking.

I kept one hand on the sink, bracing myself up while my other grabbed his shoulder, my nails digging into his suit. His cock pulled out with the head still inside of me before slamming back in; I moaned without restraint, feeling the electric shocks numb my fingers and curl my toes. He had just the right angle to penetrate my G-spot, and oh—my—fucking—god did it feel amazing!

"So wet…." Oswald groaned, his pace quickening.

His hands gripped underneath my thighs, fingertips digging. His eyes closed, his lips parted open in between sexual frustration and an edging climax.

Almost there…

It wouldn't take long.

I could feel it coming.

My thighs trembled, my moans were becoming nothing more than pleasurable cries.

 _Almost…._

"Fucking **Christ** …." I whimpered. I leaned forward and bit Oswald's shoulder as my orgasm struck home, numbing my brain.

My vaginal walls seized him and the pressure surrounding his cock made Oswald climax. He held me close to him, filling me with his come which only threw me into another moaning mess.

We remained there for a few more minutes, panting.

He slowly slid out of me and I placed both my feet on the ground, smiling at him.

"Do you feel better?" I asked smugly.

He didn't dignify the question with a response, but a sly smile on his face spoke volumes as he fixed himself. I pulled my panties back up and smoothed out my skirt.

"You _do_ look beautiful," Oswald said, noting my appearance. "Especially in a skirt."

"Thank you." I returned.

"You look beautiful in everything," Oswald pointed out, smiling at me shyly.

How was it that he could be dominating and confident one moment and then in the next appear like a school-boy with a crush? It didn't bug me any; in fact, I thought it was adorable as fuck. He touched my shoulder and kissed my cheek.

"You look good too." I said, smirking. "But you might want to be careful with those suits of yours."

"Why?"

"A woman's lingerie to a man is a man's suit to a woman," I said smoothly. I fixed his collar, adding, "I can't tell you how many times I've thought about sneaking into the back of the restaurant so I can fuck you into the wall."

Oswald's eyebrows raised in response to the vivid image he probably got in his mind and I winked at him.

"It's only through pure will power and self-discipline that I don't," I informed.

He took my hands in his.

"You don't have much self-discipline to begin with," Oswald pointed out.

"You're right," I sighed. "But for you, I try to exercise _some_ type of humanity."

Oswald snickered, "Well, you have my utmost appreciation."

I kissed his cheek, and he grinned broadly.

"I _do_ have to go though," I said, glancing at my watch. "If all goes to plan, Thanksgiving schedules will be a breeze and I won't have to yell at anyone. But the day is young."

"I'll go with you," Oswald said. "I'm meeting Don Maroni."

"In _your_ own restaurant—how original," I teased. "He loves eating there, doesn't he?"

Oswald left the kitchen briefly to get his dress jacket from the wardrobe and he slipped it on gracefully, buttoning it up and looking like the perfect gentleman.

"He prefers my company compared to others, I suppose," Oswald said as he opened the door and allowed me to step out first.

"Well, of course he does—you're his money maker."

We headed to the elevator and he pushed the button for the foyer. The doors closed with a strange shuttering sound and we exchanged glances.

"What is this meeting about, should I ask?" I inquired, stepping off the elevator.

"A check-in," Oswald answered. When I looked at him, confused, he elaborated: "After what happened with Mooney…."

"He'll be happy to know she's gone," I noted as we headed out to the car.

"Elated," Oswald agreed.

Gabe was there, opening the car door for me. Oswald took my hand and I looked at him, perplexed by the sudden movement.

"I think after I finish my business with Maroni," Oswald said thoughtfully, "we should go out for dinner. Just you and me."

I chuckled, "Like a date night?"

Oswald nodded, waiting for my answer.

"Sure." I said, smiling. "Date night sounds fun."

Oswald grinned ear-to-ear, saying, "I'll make the reservations."

I stepped inside the car and Gabe shut my door. Oswald sat in the passenger seat and Gabe, in the driver's chair. I leaned forward between the two.

"Hi, Gabe!" I greeted spontaneously.

"Hello, Miss G."

"How's life treating you?"

"Peachy," Gabe answered in his usual deep voice.

He turned his head to see me and I grinned at him.

"You look nice," he commented.

"Aw, shucks," I said, smirking. "Thank you. You don't look too bad yourself."

"Start the car, Gabe," Oswald ordered.

Gabe did as he was told and he started driving.

I suppressed a grin. I could reassure Oswald all I could about how he was the only man for me, but on the whole, Oswald was just a jealous man. Even though I had no physical, emotional, or any attraction what so ever to Gabe, Oswald still had that possessive edge to his voice. Between Gabe and Oswald, the boss sent him a warning look and Gabe appeared apologetic, but not regretful.

Gabe knew Oswald was possessive of me. And while the former would never do anything to upset the balance between our relationship, Gabe still didn't mind telling me how I looked. And I didn't mind hearing it. It was just two people acknowledging each other, really. And underneath his jealousy, Oswald seemed to understand so he didn't really have to say anything to either of us.

The drive there was short, and Gabe crawled out of the car, opening my door.

"Thank ya, friend. But you don't have to keep opening my door. I can open it myself, you know," I said lightly.

"The boss insists," Gabe said, glancing at Oswald indicatively. "Besides. I don't mind."

"That's sweet." I commented.

I walked into the restaurant.

Maroni and a few of his pals were in the dining area, already seated. It was possible that sex in the kitchen had put the meeting on a bit of a delay, but I wasn't complaining. I didn't get very far past Maroni before I heard him say, "Hey! There's my favorite gal! Get over here!"

 _Crap._

I walked backwards and smiled politely at Maroni.

"You look a lot better since I last saw you in the hospital," Maroni noted. "Let me get a look at you."

I figured he meant my neck since that's where Mike Travinsky had shot me and I tilted my head so he could see it perfectly in the sunlight.

"Healed up nicely, I see," Maroni said, smiling widely. "You're a tough girl, aren't you?"

"Or Mike is just a bad shot—either one," I answered.

Maroni found it funny and guffawed, "You're nothing if not modest, aren't you, Sylvia?"

"Don't I know it," I muttered.

"Would you like a drink?" Maroni asked, gesturing to one of his men who looked ready to serve.

"Not right now," I declined politely. "I have a few things to do around the restaurant."

"Sounds like busy work."

"It is," I said. "Really boring, but never the less—a necessity to keep the place running well. I hope you don't mind."

"Nah. Where's your lesser half?"

I pointed at Oswald who was coming around the table just as Maroni mentioned him.

"There's my main man, right there—have a seat, Penguin!" Maroni greeted happily.

 _Fish Mooney's compromise certainly put_ him _in a good mood, didn't it?_

As Oswald took a seat, I stepped into the kitchen.

Chef Billy was working his ass off, flipping burgers, boiling lobsters, working up a sweat. He wore white, much like the rest of the staff, but despite the appearance, the uniforms weren't sweat-proof; as evidence, the obese chef had pit stains showing and his neck and back fat weren't far behind. Beside him, six individuals—three men, three women—were washing dishes and scrubbing food off plates. Four waiters would bustle in and out, carrying two plates at a time and then exchanging the dirty ones for cleaner ones.

Water spilled on the floor and was guzzled into the drain; scraps of half-eaten fish sticks and shredded duck piled beside a full trash can. Over the _shhhhhhh_ of running water and loud hissing from the greasy food, I wondered how this place kept running like a well-oiled machine.

"Hey! Look who popped in for a visit!" Chef Billy said loudly, grinning over his shoulder.

His announcement brought home the attention and everyone literally glanced over to see that I was standing in the kitchen.

"You looking better," Greg, one of the most recent hires, said as he rounded the corner and placed another empty dish into the sink.

"Thanks," I said.

Several others mentioned how I looked better since getting out of the hospital. Most of them had been around when Mike shot me. Mitchell, the janitor, walked along the greasy floor and placed his arm candidly around my shoulder.

"How've you been?" He asked, grinning widely. "I've meant to ask you something since you got out."

"Sure, what's that?"

"When are we getting that buffer repaired?" He asked curiously.

"C'mon, Mitch, come off that," Billy the Chef scolded. "That work order isn't going to get through any time soon."

"It's been over a month since she put it in, Bill," Mitchell chided. "I think the repairman—what's his face—has had plenty of time to get it through. Seriously, the floors out there are getting dull, and _I'm_ not gonna be the one who gets blamed for it."

"Robert Farnsworth," corrected Greg. "The repairman's name is Robert Farnsworth."

"Fuck that guy, man," grumbled Mitchell resentfully. "The guy is a lazy prick."

Billy placed the boiling lobsters on a dish and started buttering them, looking over his shoulder.

"He _is_ a prick," Billy agreed, looking at me.

I asked, "What makes him a prick?"

"You've talked to him," Billy insisted. "Don't you think he's a prick?"

"I spoke with Moe—the plumber—It's been a while since I last spoke to him, being in a coma and what not. The Robert guy was supposed to come by and fix the buffer," I said to him lightheartedly. "Did he say anything to you?"

"He has said plenty," Billy reassured, laughing. "That's for sure."

"He's done shit," Greg said before leaving the kitchen to tend to his patrons.

I looked after him then turned to Bill.

"What does _that_ mean?" I asked.

"It means 'he's done shit'," Mitchell reaffirmed coldly.

"What specifically, though?"

Billy rolled his eyes saying, "When Mitchell brought up the fact that the work order for the buffer has been in for a while, Moe said he ain't in charge of it—that's someone else's job."

"Well, that sounds correct. If I recall, he and I said he would work on the buffer. The only thing he couldn't work on was the sink. Robert should have done that. Speaking of which, did he get them fixed?"

"No—that Robert guy never came—that's why they're saying he has 'done shit'." said Billy. "He was s'posed to work on the sinks, but he never showed. He's called twice, saying he'll be here, but he never showed."

"When was he supposed to come? Did he say?"

"Nah—he just never showed. And that's been a couple weeks too."

"So let me get this straight," I said patiently as I crossed my arms. "You're telling me that while I have been out, _nothing_ has been fixed. Moe hasn't come to fix the buffer. This Robert guy that _Moe_ recommended hasn't come to fix the sinks. When were you all going to let me know?"

Mitchell said pointedly, "We're letting you know now."

I shot him a glare.

Billy smiled apologetically saying, "No offense to you, Sylvia, but the people here don't bring their complaints to you the moment they happen."

"Why is that? Am I not approachable?"

"I think it's a woman thing, to be fair," said Billy. "I told 'em to tell me what's going on—with the sinks and buffer—and then I will let you know. But you haven't been here in a couple of weeks, so I figured it wasn't important to you. So we've just let things be, and they keep getting worse."

I stared at him incredulously.

"You're a smart guy, Bill, so I don't want you to be offended at all when I say what I am about to say politely," I said gently, smiling.

He nodded expectantly.

"That is _fucking_ idiotic," I sneered.

Billy frowned saying, "I thought you were going to say it politely."

"I _am_ being fucking polite."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"That's because I am irritated as shit."

"One could see that."

I sighed in exasperation, throwing my hands up in the air. I took the clipboard from the back of the kitchen door which read all the cleaning duties for the janitors and then smashed over on the sink. Everyone in the kitchen looked at me as I received their undivided attention.

"Everyone, stop what you're doing!" I shouted.

The dishwashers stopped washing dishes, and Billy took the grilling food and placed it to the side, turning to me expectantly. I stepped out and looked at the remaining waitresses that were helping their patrons along.

"All staff members!" I called to the room.

The staff and the customers glanced at me, including Maroni and Oswald, who were talking over a glass of champagne.

"Come to the kitchen." I commanded.

When the waitresses glanced at each other uncertainly, I shouted, "NOW!"

They excused themselves and briskly walked to me.

I gathered everyone in the kitchen and looked at them all coldly.

"I should _not_ have to treat you all like children," I snapped. "You all know how this shit works. If something breaks, if something doesn't work, you tell me when it happens. You don't _wait_ for it to get worse and **then** tell me! That is childish!" (I glanced at Billy in particular, who shrugged apathetically). "I do not come to the restaurant every day because I feel like you all can govern yourselves accordingly. If that sounds like something none of you can do anymore, please—I invite you to leave. Right now."

I shot my finger to the door, indicating the exit.

No one left.

"Now," I said with forced calm. "I am about to arrange this holiday's schedule. Other than Billy, who doesn't think they can work Thanksgiving?"

A few people raised their hands.

"Tell me why."

None of them spoke.

I sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

"If you have sick family—like Billy's mother—you can take the holiday off, _but_ you will be working Christmas Day…."

A lot of groans from everyone.

I took a long breath in before slowly exhaling.

 _Patience….patience…._

"It is only fair," I commented patiently. "If you work Thanksgiving, you'll get Christmas Day off. Vice versa. This has been and will always be the restaurant's policy—it didn't change with Lou was in charge, and it will not change while Mr. Cobblepot is in charge. Now, I need a tally of all those working Thanksgiving—so please, raise your hands."

No one raised their hands.

"If you do not decide," I warned, "I will."

A few people raised their hands to work the upcoming holiday.

"Good," I said, forcing a smile. "See what happens when we work together? Things go a lot more smoothly. All right, now those who are working Thanksgiving, you will be working your normal hours…."

"We don't do half-days?" Greg asked curiously.

I looked at him saying, "You're new here, so I don't expect you to know. But no, we don't."

"That's horse shit," he said under his breath.

I ignored his comment and said aloud, "We don't do half-days, people. You get the holiday off—that's more than what most restaurants in Gotham offer. Don't forget you also have your paid-time off to use whenever you like as long as you make sure your shifts are covered during time of absence."

Resentful agreement all around.

"Now," I continued. "I will take care of the work orders still in the system—the sinks, the buffer…."

A ceiling tile suddenly broke from above and clashed down on my right, covering me in insulation. Everyone startled and jumped back, looking at me with dropped jaws and wincing expressions. I brushed the dust from my face, squinting up at the hole above me.

"…..And that," I added.

"Are you okay?" Billy asked.

"Fucking place is falling apart," Mitchell chuckled darkly, glancing up at the hole. "I bet a mouse been eating away up there."

"I'll call an exterminator as well," I said with resolve. "Now….everyone, please, get back to work. I'll take care of it."

I stood beside Billy, who glanced at me with concern.

"While I find a reliable exterminator," I said calmly, "I need you to be my eyes and ears. If something happens, you tell me—good or bad."

"Sure thing," said Billy.

"Good man," I thanked him, patting his shoulder.

I held the door open and the waiters and waitresses quickly left to tend to their awaiting patrons. Looking out at the diner, I noticed that Oswald and Maroni were no where to be found.

An unpleasant twist in my stomach lurched. I glanced at my phone to see if there were any missed calls or messages, but so far, none.

 _Stay calm, girl. He and Maroni just probably went to take a walk._

I bit my lip uncertainly.

Oswald knew how protective I was of him, knew how quickly I would think the worst. Would he not have sent me a text or pulled me aside to let me know he was leaving? Then again, Oswald was with Maroni, the big bad guy himself. It wasn't like he was left alone with someone like Fish Mooney, right?

With Fish gone, Falcone would have to fight to keep her territory. Perhaps they….

 _Went to talk about opportunities? Opportunities were Maroni's thing, and Oswald was an opportunist, well-defined._

I forced myself to calm down. I had to make the schedules, still. Leaving wasn't going to happen for the next hour or so. I figured if I didn't hear from him by then, I would investigate.

 _Maybe put out a BOLO or whatever the cops did when someone went missing._

I laughed nervously at that.

Talk about an overreaction.

Or….

I glanced at my phone again.

 _Don't worry, girl. Oswald is a survivor. He can take care of himself. He's the Penguin after all, remember?_

Sure….He can take care of himself.

But Maroni is a big guy. And he's alarmingly suave.

Oh god, my hands are shaking. So nervous….

 _Just make the schedules quickly. After that, you can call him. Just. Keep. Fucking. Calm. Don't overreact, don't overthink. Just do what you have to do—Oswald would say that, wouldn't he? Just do your job, and leave the worrying to him. He can handle it._

"Sylvia, are you okay?"

I smiled at Billy who was watching me earnestly.

"Just thinking…." I managed distractedly.

"Is that all?" He said, glancing at my trembling hands, one of which was holding my phone so tightly that my nail beds were turning white.

I smiled weakly.

"That's all." I reassured more firmly.

 _Just about to have a fucking heart attack, that's all._

"Excuse me," I said politely.

I walked into Oswald's office, closing the door behind me. I slunk against the frame. One more glance at the phone and I'll start working on those schedules.

 _You said one more glance, girl. You're staring at the thing._

"Come on, Oz." I whispered. "Give me a sign you're okay."

The phone's screensaver just stared back at me.

 _Do I call him?_

No….what if he's having a discussion with Maroni? You can blow his chances if he has to interrupt the conversation just to say he's fine. You don't want to be _that_ girlfriend, do you?

 _Should I text him_?

What if his phone is on silent?

 _I don't fucking know._

I bit my lip and felt my heart beating faster. Why did I feel like the walls were closing in.

 _Seriously, you need to chill._

I laughed out loud—not that it made me feel any better. The laugh itself came out shaky and petrified.

I hit number one on the speed dial.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

"Come on, PICK UP!" I shouted.

Ring, ring, ring, ring….ring, ring….

 _Don't be that type of girlfriend, Sylvia. Stop calling him. He'll call you._

"Pick up…." I said loudly. "Pick up, pick up, pick up….goddamn it why do you have fucking cell phone if you're not going to pick up!"

I stood to my feet.

Fuck the schedules. I would do them later. I'd have to find Oswald.

 _He never told you where he was going._

"Fuck me!" I groaned.

 _Maroni knows._

"He doesn't know shit—oh my god, I am talking to myself," I muttered, rubbing my forehead. "Okay….okay….Now I know I am overreacting. I'll….I'll leave a voicemail or something for him to call me back."

 _He has his phone on silent. That's why he's not answering._

"Of course!" I exclaimed, slapping my forehead. "Of course….it makes sense. Okay….I'll just send him a text."

I opened up the messages and started one.

 _When you get this, please call me._

I wondered whether or not I should add a smiley face, but then again, this wasn't a cutesy message, this was a 'I am having a panic attack, tell me you're not fucking dead' kind of message. No cute fuckery around here, right now!

So I sent it as is.

 _Okay, you sent the message. Now calm the hell down._

I sat in Oswald's chair and pulled the notebook of schedules towards me. If I started some busy work, I could bring myself to do just that: calm down, that is. Even as I stared at the shift markers and the names of all the employees, my mind was buzzing.

The disgusting turning and twisting in my stomach was not helping in the slightest.

 _Don't you dare look at your phone—ah you bitch…._

I looked at my phone, picking it up.

Then I thought, _Oh shit….what if he doesn't have signal_?

"Goddamn it…." I muttered. " _Goddamn it."_

I hadn't thought about that!

More panic. More uncomfortable stomach cartwheels. More trembling.

Jim.

 _Don't call your brother, he won't help._

"He'll have to." I muttered. "He should know—"

There was a knock on the door.

"Come!" I called out.

The door opened and standing in the doorway was Billy.

"What?" I demanded.

Billy apologetically smiled, holding up the work phone saying, "It's Robert."

"The repairman?" I questioned.

He nodded.

"What does he want?"

"You might want to hear it yourself," Billy stated carefully. "But you're not gonna like it."

"Take a message then."

"He doesn't want to leave a message; he wants to talk to you," Billy explained patiently.

"Then let him know that I will call him back," I remarked strictly. "I'm in the middle of something."

Billy sighed and he answered the phone, looking at me. After a few seconds, he sighed again, saying, "She's not available—she said she will call you back though….no….no, sir, I…..well, that's what she said, I can't help it if you don't want to hear it."

"Give me the goddamn phone," I snarled.

Billy raised his eyebrows and he quickly handed it to me.

" _ **What.**_ "

"Is this Sylvia Gordon?"

"Speaking," I said coldly.

"My name is Robert Farnsworth…."

"I'm well aware of who you are, sir," I interrupted curtly. I stood to my feet. "You came highly recommended by a colleague of yours, one named Moe Smith. He talked _very_ highly of you, said you would come and fix the sinks that are still in disrepair. But my staff just informed me that you never appeared. You wasted my staff's time, your time, and what's considerably _more_ important— **my** time. You got it?"

"I understand your concern—"

"Clearly you don't," I retorted.

"Well, ma'am, I was going to let you know that I plan on arriving at your restaurant in a few hours if you would be available to sign the necessary documentation provided," said Robert calmly.

"I won't be available," I said, glancing up at Billy. "But I will place a member of my staff in my place."

"Ma'am, that won't work."

"Well, it will have to," I responded coldly. "I have a very full schedule. My chef will be able to sign the documents needed. I trust him."

Billy grinned at my comment.

"If that is not going to work," I said sternly, "then I will use another company. You plumbers are a dime a dozen here in Gotham."

There was silence on the other line.

"Fine," said Robert (it sounded like he was holding back a temper tantrum). "That will be fine. I will be there in a few hours. Acceptable?"

"Yes. Thank you." I said and then I hung up.

I looked at Billy, and handed him the phone. He took it gingerly from my hands, watching me.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?" asked Billy.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Why do you ask?"

Billy said, smiling in amusement, "You were a lot more abrasive on the phone….more than normal, I mean."

I sat at Oswald's desk, in his chair, and looked at Billy pointedly, saying, "I can't stand it when things don't go according to plan—gets me bent out of shape."

"I can see that," said Billy. He stepped towards the desk. "You tend to get angry a lot—not just when things don't go according to plan."

I looked up at him.

"You get angry when you're scared," said Billy gently.

"That's nonsense."

"Is it?" Billy chuckled. "You were angry when Mike was trying to get his job back. You were angry when he nearly killed you—you were feisty all the way up to the end."

"Not the end, Bill. I lived." I said, pointing to my neck. "What's your point?"

"You're not just angry to be angry. You're angry because you're anxious. But you're like the most confident, fearless woman I know," said Billy, placing his hands on his wide hips. "So that makes me wonder: what are you afraid of?"

"I don't like snakes very much," I offered with a small smile.

"That's not what I'm talking about. Why are you nervous right now?"

I gave him a long, hard look, wondering if I could trust my chef with any of my secrets. Ultimately, no, I couldn't. But it would be nice to expel some of my anxiety, to have an outlet other than yelling at my staff.

"I've not heard from Oswald." I admitted.

"And you're worried about him?"

"'Worried' is a little over-the-top, don't you think?"

Billy chuckled, "For most people, sure. But you're overprotective….and a few other things."

I smiled saying, "I'm the jealous type—I admit it. But that's not why I am worried."

"You don't think he's two-timing you?"

"He never would," I said softly. "He always suspects that _I_ might."

"That doesn't offend you?"

"He and I are both jealous. It's not one our best traits, but we get by," I explained coolly. "Regardless, I don't think he's cheating on me. I think he might be in trouble."

"One of the waiters say he left with Maroni—does that sound troubling?" Chef Billy asked curiously.

"It does but not for reasons you may think," I returned.

"Tried calling him?"

I nodded.

"Have you tried texting him?" Billy asked.

Once again, I nodded.

"Does he normally tell you where he's going?"

I smiled saying, "Not all the time. That's why I think I _may_ be overreacting just a bit….."

"That's what you're telling yourself," said Billy, crossing his arms. "But what's your gut telling you? I know what mine tells me. It says 'eat lunch', and I do it. When it tells me to not pass on the dessert, I'm digging into that ice cream bowl."

I gave him a look, saying, "Your gut is a bad influence."

"It can be," Billy agreed, shrugging. "But it's normally right."

 _Huh. Who knew Chefs were wise._

"Listen to your gut," said Billy carefully. "It knows what's wrong before the rest of you does."

I smiled, getting to my feet.

"Thank you, Bill." I said, holding out my hand.

"No problem," Bill replied, shaking it. "Does this mean I get a raise?"

"Maybe," I offered. "I'll talk to Oswald and see if something can be arranged."

Billy grinned widely and he left the office, closing the door on the way out.

I opened my messages and my heart skipped a beat when I read the message:

 _Maroni knows._

I stared at the message for a while longer before it registered in my brain: Maroni knows that Fish isn't dead, maybe? He knows that Oswald is secretly working for Falcone? That message could mean a whole shitload of things! One thing was for certain: my life was in danger.

"Fuck…." I muttered. "Fuck!"

Schedules would have to wait!

I glanced out of the office window and saw some of Maroni's men outside waiting for me.

"Oh shit!" I gasped.

 _They're coming for you._

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit on a fucking cracker, shit….okay…okay…." I mumbled to myself. I thought better aloud anyway—who needed a thought bubble. "Shit..."

There were two windows on the back wall, opposite of the door. I slid the office chair underneath the one that looked like it would open.

There was no latch or pulley—nothing. It was just decoration.

But I could fit through it if I broke it. My eyes darted around the room. Anything could be used as a weapon in this place, even that stapler, or the guest's chair.

 _Bingo._

Lifting the chair was a lot harder than I thought since it was heavier than it looked. I lifted it over my shoulder and threw it into the glass, and then I fell backwards momentarily after.

 _Not the best idea, idiot._

The door opened.

 _Yeah, you should have locked that sucker up._

They were familiar, the two large thugs belonging to Maroni that came inside the office. The first was dressed in his usual yellow garb; his name was Mack. The other was just as stocky, dressed in black. His name was Crone. They both smiled at me.

"Boss told us to take you out," said Mack. "I told him it would be a pleasure. How do you wanna do it?"

"Fuck you." I hissed.

Mack sighed, glancing at his compadre, saying, "I guess we're doing it the hard way, huh?"

"Yeah," chuckled Crone. "I guess we are." He grinned slyly, and he took out a knife. "How do you like it, Poppet?"

I couldn't think of a good enough comeback for him. Instead, I was trying to think of the quickest way out of this office. The window hadn't even splintered—maybe I should have the same guy who put up the glass window fix the sink?

"You got to love a strong-willed woman," said Mack to Crone. "They're so fiery, you know? I bet she's just a wild animal in the sack. Isn't that right?"

"If you come any closer," I snarled, "I will eat your fucking nose."

"I'd hope you'd lick something first," guffawed Mack. To lay down the point, he grabbed himself through his pants. "Let's see what keeps that penguin's attention at night, huh?"

Crone seemed reluctant with the suggestion. He held the knife in his hand but I doubted he had intended on using it for more than just slicing and dicing. Mack, on the other hand, looked like he might come in his pants with just the thought of his dick in my mouth. There was a lot of hunger in that face, and I _know_ it wasn't real hunger because he'd eaten three plates of Chef Billy's lasagna.

They steadily crept forward.

Three times my weight—there was no way I could fight one, never the less, the _both_ of them.

My phone started ringing.

I answered it quickly, "Yes…."

"Sylvia!"

It was Oswald.

I didn't let out a breath of relief, even though I wanted to. If these fuckers knew that Oswald was alive, they'd call Maroni and try to find him again. I felt my voice shake though.

"Sylvia!"

I smiled at the two men, saying, "It's the pizza guy."

"Is it?" said Mack. "You're ordering pizza?"

I nodded, saying, "I _was_ until you two came. I can finish ordering if you want—it's already bought and paid for….er...compliments of the house."

I spoke into the phone as I talked to the two goons. I didn't know what I was expecting but….it was well worth a short.

"Sure, order the pizza," said Mack, gesturing to me. "Then….then you can suck my pepperoni, if you get what I am saying."

Oswald's voice said curiously on the other line, "Sylvia?"

"Oh," I continued. "Who is the pizza for? Well, just put on the list that it's for Mack and Crone—they'll be here for pickup."

Mack said, "Put extra cheese on mine."

"Yes, two pizzas," I said shakily. "Extra cheese on Mack's pizza, please."

Oswald was quiet on the other line. Until he spoke next, "Say 'Mushrooms' if you are in trouble, Sylvia."

"Mushrooms," I answered calmly.

Crone added, "Extra pepperonis. I don't really want Mushrooms on mine."

I nodded quickly and covered the speaker just barely so Oswald could still hear while I told Crone, "Don't worry—I'll let him know….he's uh….writing all the information down to give to his _boss_."

On Oswald's side, I could hear another voice. It was Falcone, talking to Oswald. They spoke quickly and under their breaths. Falcone's voice on the other line startled me.

"Sylvia," said Falcone. "If there is more than one person with you, say you would like 'Thin Crust'."

"I'd like _both_ of the pizzas to be 'thin crust'…." I began.

"No! NO THIN CRUST!" Mack shouted.

"N-nevermind…." I said quickly. "No thin crust….per the fine gentleman in front of me."

Mack pulled out a gun and I felt my legs starting to give out from all this anxiety.

"Finish ordering that pizza, little girl," Mack drawled. "And we'll have something _real_ nice for you."

Falcone's voice said calmly, "You're trying to be calm, Sylvia. Don't. Let them feel like they have _you_ under control. Where are you?"

I heard Oswald say, "She's at the restaurant."

Falcone's voice returned: "My men are coming, Sylvia."

"Sure thing," I said, nodding quickly. I looked at the men. "They want to know if you'd like anything to go with it?"

"Some Pepsi—but none of that diet shit," Crone insisted, nudging Mack. "And it better come cold!"

"Pepsi," I said quickly. "Um. What's the estimated time of arrival, may I ask?"

Oswald's voice spoke on the other end: "Twenty minutes. Tell them it'll be fifteen."

"Fifteen minutes." I repeated.

Mack snarled, "Fuck that—make it thirty—I'd like this moment to last forever."

I couldn't say anything to that: not to them or to Oswald.

"We'll be there as quick as possible, Sylvia. I love you." Oswald said—and his voice shook too.

I couldn't say anything to that without feeling I would give myself away. I hung up the phone. Mack held his hand out for it, and I gave it to them. Mack smirked back at Crone.

"Keep that door shut." Mack said dangerously. "I want to enjoy this…"

"What if I wanted her first?" Crone questioned, offended. "I hate sloppy seconds."

"Well, you're going to have to live with it, then. I'll just leave nothing for you, how's that? You like that?"

I rolled my eyes. Even when my life and otherwise perfect vagina was being threatened, I couldn't help but feel irritated by the childish argument. But it seemed that between the two of them, Mack was the Alpha male since Crone seemed placated by the insult; he stood in front of the door, facing us.

"He's just going to watch?" I exclaimed, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Don't tell me you're _shy—_ I bet you like doing shit in front of people. Nice handful of tits like yours—you gotta be a real exhibitionist."

"I'm surprised you even know that word."

"'Exhibitionist'?" Mack asked, stepping forward with a smug grin.

"No," I returned. "The word 'of'."

"Smart ass little bitch. I'm going to enjoy this." Mack grumbled.

He stepped closer to me.

I stepped to the side, keeping my back away from any walls. There was no flipping way I would be the stupid girl slowly being backed into a corner.

 _No one puts Baby in a corner._

Ha. Movie references.

Mack seemed to realize I wasn't as stupid as he thought for he noticed that I always kept some space between us. He suddenly lunged forward. I jumped back. He took a swipe again, and I ran past him.

This office wasn't big to begin with, but of medium space. He placed the gun on the table.

"I was just going to fuck you, nice and slow, and then shoot ya, but I guess I've changed my mind," Mack growled. "I'm going to fuck you until you bleed, and _then_ I will shoot you. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Could you shoot me first?" I questioned pointedly. "I'd rather be dead than have that little sausage go anywhere near me!"

"That's right," Mack spat. "Make me mad. It'll only hurt worse!"

He lunged forward one more time and grabbed my hair. I started kicking and screaming as loud as possible. He shoved his hand over my mouth, then slammed my body into the ground. I grunted at the impact and he straddled me.

"Gotta thank god for you girls wearing shit like this…." Mack moaned as he yanked my skirt above my waist. I still wriggled and writhed, trying to get away from him. He sat on my knees and one hand held both of my wrists in his palm.

My god, this guy was fat.

"Look at that cute little pussy just trying to get out," said Mack, grinning toothily. "I bet you're shaven too….Let's took a look!"

"NO!" I screamed, but it came out as "MM!" thanks to the hand that muzzled me.

He took one side of my panties and stripped them down my legs.

"Oh my god….Look at this, Crone!" Mack shouted, grinning downwards. "Not one hair!"

Crone, who just _had_ to see what Mack was bragging about, came running forward and he started palming his own crotch when he saw my bare pussy.

"Okay—you've looked," said Mack gruffly, "Get back to guarding the damn door!"

Crone mumbled hateful words under his breath before doing what he was told.

Mack reached between my legs and shoved his fingers inside me.

It was this point that I started crying and I started struggling even harder.

"Oh so fucking _tight..._.goddamn, this bitch is—"

There was a large BAM at the door, like someone was trying to break in. Crone grunted at the impact, and whipped around in surprise. Mack ignored it shouting, "DON'T LET THEM IN!"

He unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants and out sprung a big cock. It touched my inner thighs and I screamed as loud as possible. Then I bit the fucker's hand.

"FUCKING WHORE!" He shouted, and he slapped me in the face.

"GET OFF ME!" I screamed.

"That comes after I've been inside you," Mack groaned.

When the BAM happened again, it burst through the door. The BAM sound was another one of Maroni's big fellas being thrown into the door. When the door was bust through, Crone was swung to the left, his head hitting the wall hard; he drooped against the wall, knocked out. Stepping on the fat door-breaker of a human being was Victor Zsasz, JJ and Al. Behind _them_ was Carmine Falcone, who seemed at ease until he saw my predicament.

Mack wasn't paying any attention.

Victor started forward, murder in his eyes. He placed two guns against Mack's head, and cocked each of them.

After hearing the sound, Mack looked at me like he'd never been more terrified.

"Take your hands _off_ my student," Victor ordered dangerously. "Stand up, and back away. If you don't do what I say, I will happily blow your head off."

Mack looked down at me. Despite the tears running down my face, I smirked at him.

"You better do what he says," I said lowly.

Mack slowly stood up and I crawled away, my face burning in humiliation. Falcone approached Mack, his eyes were cold like ice, and empty. He placed his hands behind him, as though he was thinking of the many ways he could discipline this character.

"Sylvia." Falcone said softly.

I looked up at him.

"Would you kindly leave the room? Your fiance is outside waiting for you." Falcone explained gently. "But before Victor and I deal with Crone..." (Victor's eyes never left Mack's head) "I think it's only fair that you get to decide what should be done with Mack."

I looked at the man in question, who still had his cock out—although instead of it being hard and erect, it was soft and tiny.

"Sir…." I began.

"I'll tell you what I would do…." Falcone encouraged, smiling. "If I had been in your situation."

"You would kill him?" I asked knowingly.

"Of course," Falcone returned lightly

Victor spoke calmly, "I know what _I_ would do" and he mimicked a gun shooting at Mack's privates, making Al and JJ smirk at each other.

The latter whimpered, shaking his head, pleading for mercy.

"I have something else in mind," I said quietly.

Falcone watched expectantly as I strode towards Mack, who looked at me defiantly. He was trying to maintain his dignity, proving that he was still the Alpha male. Falcone waved for Victor and his team to move away and leave me with Mack.

"You still want me to suck your dick?" I asked softly, caressing his face.

Victor's eyes widened in shock and he glanced at Falcone uncertainly, leaning in, he said, "Boss….I think we should—"

"Let's see where this goes," Falcone insisted. "Get Cobblepot in here."

"I don't think that's a wise decision," Victor muttered. "She's going to—"

"Get him in here," Falcone ordered.

"Sure…." Victor said quietly. He made a hand gesture and I was a bit aware that Oswald was in the room with us.

"What is—" Oswald began, but Falcone hushed him.

Mack looked at me incredulously.

"Do you…." I said softly still, "want me….to suck your dick?"

"Um….I mean, sure…." Mack muttered.

I palmed him in front of everyone.

"Sylvia!" Oswald protested.

"Shh," Victor ordered. "We're seeing where this goes."

I palmed the guy until he was erect and relaxed. Then I slowly knelt to my knees.

"Boss, are we really going to let this happen?" Victor said incredulously.

Once my mouth was on Mack's dick, Mack moaned.

Then I bit down.

"AHHHHH!" Mack screamed.

I stood up, holding Mack's penis in my hand, spitting out the blood.

"Suck your own dick, you sick fucker!" I shouted, and I shoved it down his throat.

He gagged on it, and fell over, holding his thick neck, eyes wide in terror and shock. I watched him slowly suffocate, and he reached out for anything or anyone to help him. When he held my ankle, I grabbed the gun that Mack had carelessly sat on the table, aimed and pulled the trigger, shooting off his balls. He tried to scream, but much like mine had been, his screams were muffled.

His eyes grew wider as he slowly began to die, and when he _was_ dead, I threw the gun into his lap.

I turned to see Victor staring at me, although he was grinning; Oswald looked absolutely terrified and Falcone appeared satisfied, albeit a bit disgusted. I strode past them without another word and was thankful that the rest of the restaurant had been cleared of all customers.

In the bathroom, I saw myself in the mirror. My entire front was covered with blood, my face was splattered and speckled with red, covering my tear-stained cheeks. I turned the faucet on full blast, ripped paper towels from the dispenser and rubbed them vigorously over my face before wetting them and doing the same between my legs.

Then I started crying for many reasons.

Crying because I had been violated. Crying because I had let it happen. Crying because I was so furious that I was crying in the first place. It was during that moment that I truly felt like I had been helpless. But the sound of screams that had come out of Mack, the way he pleaded and begged for death all the way to the end almost made up for it. The crunch sound his penis made when it was ripped off his body, and the blood that spurted out when I shot his balls.

I threw the bloody towels in the trash can.

I brushed my hair to the side and walked out of the bathroom. Pacing back and forth was Oswald, who, when he saw me, moved quickly and wrapped his arms around me. Despite the fact that my shirt was covered in blood, he didn't seem to care.

"I'm sorry," he began.

"Don't apologize."

"But truly, I am," Oswald insisted. "This is twice that this has happened because of me, my work."

I shoved him away and shouted, "I said _don't apologize_!"

He blinked, taken aback.

"I _chose_ to be a part of this," I said, pointing at Falcone. "You can't be sorry for something _I_ chose. Stop being sorry, Oswald. Stop saying you're sorry, even when you are! Your work—Don Falcone, Don Maroni, hell, even the craziness of the GCPD—I knew what I was getting into when we started dating!"

I looked at Falcone quickly saying, "No offense, sir."

"None taken," said Falcone, raising his hands. He looked at Victor. "Bring Crone." He glanced at the man who was slowly coming to. "We'll add him to your collection."

Victor grinned widely, saying, "You heard him, girls. Looks like ol' Butch is gonna have a friend!"

I turned to Oswald who looked at me. He struggled to speak.

"I don't know what to say," Oswald said finally.

"Then don't say anything," I remarked shakily. "Just…I need to go home. Can you take me home?"

"Of course," Oswald responded quickly.

He unbuttoned and shrugged off his jacket and placed it over me and he walked me to the car. While Gabe drove us, I sat in the back seat; and for once, Oswald was seated there with me. He held out his hand, palm up. I placed my hand in his; he squeezed.

He smiled gently at me, but I couldn't return it. I turned my head, looking out the window.

I was quiet the entire way home.


	9. Date Night

Chapter Nine: Date Night

A/N: This chapter is a lot lighter compared to the last one. :)

* * *

I stood in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. In the casting reflection, I could see Oswald gingerly peeling off my blood-soaked clothes but I couldn't feel his touch. He spoke in a soothing voice, telling me to step out when my skirt puddled around my ankles and to raise my arms so he could pull the shirt up and over my head; I followed each request, numbly doing as he asked. As he ran the bath, he encouraged me to sit on the side of the bath tub. He soaked a wash cloth and wiped the blood off my face, my neck and shoulders.

He said 'you're okay, pigeon', and he meant every word. The sincerity of his words echoed in the back of my mind, telling me that I was safe. I let him talk. I let him speak, for now, while I burrowed deeper into my mind.

I wanted to repeat the event in my head, to see how I might have reacted differently. I could piece together the terrible parts where the man's fingers had shoved themselves into my pussy and I could remember his naked cock touching me—but everything else, the beginning and the end were a goddamn blur. It was like I had woken up from a vivid nightmare and most of it had been forgotten, all but the worst parts….it figures.

Oswald touched my face again with the damp cloth; I took it gingerly out of his hands.

He looked at me curiously. I didn't offer an explanation. Instead, I stood, stripped my body of all my clothes, then slowly eased myself into the bathtub. I watched Mack's dried blood on my legs and stomach slowly flake off and float to the surface. Oswald's eyebrows furrowed at my actions.

"Sylvia…."

"Please." I said hoarsely. "Don't talk anymore. Just…."

Just what though….?

I didn't know what I wanted. Did I want him to stay? Or did I want to be alone? I wanted to shower but at the same time, I wanted to stay in this bath full of the dead fucker's blood as a reminder that I had, in the end, bested him. I looked into Oswald's pleading eyes and I could see how desperate he wanted to make me feel better.

But _I_ didn't know what he could do to make it so.

After some time, I stood and stepped out of the bath. I looked behind me and saw bloody bits just latching together on the surface of the water, like algae on a dead-still pond. I wordlessly pulled the drain and then wrapped a towel around my body. Oswald sat on the edge of the tub, watching me, perplexed.

"Did you make the dinner reservations?" I asked softly, referring to the plans we had made earlier this morning.

"I can cancel them," Oswald offered, standing.

"Don't."

"Sylvia, you've—"

"I don't want to face what happened," I said immediately, stopping him. "I will but I don't want to face it right now. I want to keep the dinner reservations. We made plans this morning...I don't want to change them."

Oswald looked reluctant to agree.

"Fine," said Oswald gently, "If that's truly what you want."

"It is," I murmured. "I'll get dressed."

I moved to the other room and observed myself in the wall length mirror in the bedroom, looking at my nude body.

Was I still pretty?

Was I fat?

Was I too skinny?

Did I look better in jeans or should I wear a skirt?

 _Remember the last time you wore a skirt…._

I grimaced.

"It would have happened _regardless_ of what I'd have worn," I muttered, knowing the inevitability.

Mack was a pig. He had planned from the start that he would take away my dignity before taking my life. I looked at the mirror, observing my right side.

Compared to what happened, the scar on my neck was nothing but a scratch. I was shot in the neck and survived. But how did one survive something like a sexual assault? Does anyone get over anything like that, truly?

 _No. You_ can't _get over something like that. No matter how many people say that you can._

How many times had Jim told me stories of women who were raped and failed to show up in court to testify against their attacker? They never went to trial because they feared someone would shame them into thinking that the attack—on the whole—was their fault.

 _You can't blame yourself—you were unarmed._

True.

 _You should blame yourself—you_ weren't _armed._

Maybe true?

I stepped closer to the mirror, having the internal debate run its course.

 _I may deserve the ambush, but I didn't deserve the sexual assault. I may deserve a punch in the face for being a bitch, but just because I wear a skirt doesn't mean it was my fault._ Right?

Huh…. was that a breakthrough?

I looked at my neck, my cheeks. I attempted a smile, and the dimples revealed themselves like a passing 'hello'. I caressed my collar bones, and my breasts, down to my stomach, and then my thighs. The fucker had sat on my knees; he'd kept me from moving and wriggling out of his grip.

 _You should have struggled harder._

Maybe, but the guy was three times my weight. Not even Jim could have gotten out of that scrape.

 _Thank goodness for Falcone's intervention._

Thank goodness, indeed…. not for Falcone, but for Oswald.

There was a knock on the door.

 _Speak of the devil._

"Come in."

Oswald opened the door, dressed in a different suit. He looked snazzy, wearing a white long-sleeve shirt under an azure-colored vest, his raven hair doing the disco vampire thing. His dress coat was no doubt hanging on the coat rack near the front door. I observed his reflection as he glanced at my naked figure.

For the umpteenth time, he asked if I was okay.

"No," I finally admitted, my voice shaking with the confession. "I'm not okay." I crossed my hands over my chest, looking at him.

"You're right, I apologize…. Stupid question," said Oswald, clearing his throat.

He stood beside me, looking at his reflection as well. He glanced uneasily at me, probably wondering why I was standing naked in front of the mirror, staring at myself. I glanced down and wiggled my toes on the carpet, aware that they were moving, aware that the carpet below was supposed to be soft but not able to realize that it was _I_ who moved my own toes. It was a detaching feeling, like something out of a sci-fi flick.

Oswald said softly, "If you're having second doubts about the dinner, you can tell me."

"Thank you. But I still want to go."

Oswald sat on the edge of the bed, watching me. After a moment, I felt embarrassed so I covered my chest, turning to him.

"What are you thinking?" I inquired.

"You don't want to know," Oswald reassured with a small smile.

"I do want to know."

Oswald sighed, unwilling. But he saw my consistent gaze.

"I'm thinking that you…." he began, hesitating as I walked towards him.

He continued: "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I'm thinking that—for the time being—you don't see that yourself. But…." (He paused when I stood before him, and continued when I had no objections.) "…. But with you standing in front of me as you are, I want nothing more than to have you underneath me while I make love to you in every way, shape, or form that I can possibly think of."

He waited for my response.

"Then why don't you." I told him quietly.

"Sylvia, after everything that has happened—"

"Don't _treat_ me like I'm some injured animal!" I lashed out.

He looked up at me in surprise, and he emitted a gasp when I pushed him on his back, and straddled his waist.

" _You_ asked me how you can make me feel better," I said boldly. "If you want to make me feel better, make love to me _right_ now. Show me…. show me I am still yours!"

Oswald stared up at me.

I felt my eyes sting with fresh tears.

" _Please_ , baby," I pleaded. "Please make me yours again. I still feel him touching me, I feel _it_. And I don't want to feel this way anymore!"

Oswald sat up cautiously, and he guided me off him, brushing the tears from my face.

"Sylvia, look at me." He said gently.

I couldn't.

"Pigeon, _look_ at me," Oswald said more firmly.

My face burned with mortification—I literally threw myself at him not a minute ago and now I wanted nothing more than to roll myself into a ball and hide in a closet.

He said gently, "You _are_ still mine. You always have been, always will be. What happened in the restaurant was _not_ your fault. If anyone says otherwise, I will make it my highest priority to shoot them myself."

I felt more tears fall from my eyelashes, rolling down my cheeks and they were like razor blades cutting further into my pride. He cradled my face in his hands, his thumbs wiped them away and he kissed my forehead.

And I smiled.

I placed my hands on his shoulders, looking at his vest and smiled in spite of myself.

"You look good in blue," I mumbled.

He placed his hands over mine, saying, "Thank you. Did you still want to go to the dinner?"

I nodded.

"Then you might want to get dressed, Pigeon. Otherwise, they'll give our table away."

I stood. He walked to the closet and laid out a black dress on the bed.

 _Remember the last time you wore the skirt? What will happen, you think, if you wear the dress?_

I nervously bit my lip and considered those options. Oswald seemed to somehow follow the same thought process. He took my hand and pulled me to him; I languidly followed.

"You won't be wearing it for _them_ ," Oswald reassured.

"I'll be wearing it for **me** ," I stated, smiling.

"That's my girl," He said proudly. He gestured behind him, saying, "I'll be in the living room."

"Okay…." I whispered.

He closed the door with a _click_ on his way out of the bedroom. I glanced at the door before looking uncertainly at the dress.

I pulled my hair into bun, staring into the mirror as I had done before. The dress covered one shoulder, leaving the other bare. There was a slit in the dress that rode up to my right knee, and I gave it a double-doubter thought. I took a deep breath in and a shaky breath out.

 _Be proud,_ I thought. _You bit the bastard's pecker off—you shot him in the balls…. you're a bad-ass. And you don't go down easy, do you?_

I smiled at the mirror, and a redhead with ruby lipstick smiled right back at me.

Due to the fact of my wearing a dress, I forced to compromise: I had to carry a handbag. But I wasn't left _entirely_ dependent on it. While inside it was a handgun, I kept a knife strapped to my left outer thigh in any case things got a little physical. I'd always been the paranoid one (thanks to growing up with a Gotham City District Attorney and lawful brother), but now I felt hyper-vigilant.

That would probably destroy someone who wasn't used to the eccentricity that was Gotham City, but since I had plenty of practice, I figured 'fuck it all, why not you know. Let's add a little _more_ paranoia into the mix'.

Stepping out of the bedroom was almost a living dream. When Oswald turned, hearing me close the bedroom door, the look on his face made me bloom. He appeared mesmerized, even though he had seen me in this dress a million times before.

"Stunning as always," Oswald commented, making me blush.

"Oh, _shush_ ," I said, smiling at him.

He held my hand and we walked to the elevator doors, stepping inside with two other gentlemen. I glanced between the two men. Oswald withdrew his hand from mine and placed it on my lower back. The gesture, however simple, made me feel safer, more protected.

If Oswald had never been overprotective before, he certainly was now.

When the elevator doors opened, he insisted that the two gentlemen go before us. He and I walked outside where, like always, Gabe was waiting for us. He smiled kindly at me, and I returned it politely. Like before, Oswald crawled into the back seat with me.

"Hi, Gabe," I greeted as I always did.

"Good evening, Miss G. Where's this place again?" Gabe asked, glancing in the rear-view mirror at Oswald.

"Three stoplights ahead, turn right, and it'll be on your left," Oswald replied.

His arm went around my shoulders, pulling me to him. I smiled inwardly, warmed by his embrace. I nuzzled the crook of his neck.

"I'll make sure nothing like that ever happens to you, Pigeon," Oswald spoke evenly.

I glanced up at him, and saw that Oswald was staring angrily out the window. Such a contrast to the soft, gentle tone that had come out of him just a second ago. I reckoned on some level, he blamed himself—I knew he did. I may have stopped him from apologizing, but I was certain he still felt remorseful for what happened with Mack…. maybe even before that.

"You can't promise something like that," I told him gently.

"I can certainly try," Oswald reassured coolly. "From now on, you'll have a guard with you."

"Tomas is nice," I suggested.

"Who?"

Gabe chimed in: "Tomas—Frankie Carbone's guy."

" _You_ were Frankie Carbone's guy," I said to Gabe. "Which makes me wonder, why are you here? I mean, weren't you technically Maroni's guy?"

"Well," said Gabe, smiling, "Penguin pays more, and I don't mind your company, Miss G. Tomas was the other- _other_ guy."

The car came to a slow halt at the stop light.

I nuzzled Oswald's chest, breathing in his cologne. I poked the gold and cobalt blue pocket square, whispering, " _Boop_!" He looked down when he felt the gentle prod of my finger.

"Your mother should be proud; you have to be the most gentlemanly gentleman ever," I told him quietly. "You know, I was serious when I was asking you to fuck me in the bedroom. I wasn't just in the middle of an emotional crisis."

"You've experienced something unforgivable, Sylvia." (Gabe glanced at us in the rear-view mirror inquisitively) "I refuse to take advantage of your vulnerability," said Oswald sternly. He added, "Especially if _I_ wasn't the one who caused it."

"By that logic, if you did cause me to feel vulnerable, you _would_ take advantage of it."

"Oh, absolutely," Oswald agreed.

I giggled, burrowing my face into his jacket. His fingers laced through my hair, massaging my scalp with soft presses of his fingertips.

"Stop lights are taking forever," Gabe muttered, shaking his head slowly in disappointment.

Oswald's massaging fingertips slowly left my head and braced along my neck, rubbing my nape with just enough pressure that I was certain if he continued, I would fall asleep. His other hand held my own, his thumb stroking concentric circles over my knuckles. I glanced up to see that he was looking out the window still, lost in thought.

"How's your mom?" I asked, hoping to bring Oswald back to reality.

He was startled by the question as his mind was plunged back into the car with me.

"What?"

"Your mom," I repeated. "How is she?"

"She's fine," Oswald answered calmly. "She's knitting again."

"She knows how to knit?"

He chuckled, "Since I can remember."

"That's nice. I feel like it's an old woman characteristic," I said softly. "It's like once they hit a certain age, elderly women just know how to do it. Or maybe they've done everything else that they just take it on as another challenge."

"The last describes my mother," Oswald decided.

"It certainly sounds like her," I agreed.

"She's not a bad dancer," Gabe chimed in.

"She taught me to waltz," I recalled, grinning at the thought.

Oswald rubbed the back of my neck with his thumb, index and middle finger, massaging my neck and squeezing gently.

"Ozzie, if you keep doing that, you're going to put me to sleep." I murmured.

" _MOVE!"_ Gabe shouted (Oswald and I jumped), honking his horn. "The light is green! Go!"

I giggled—having never heard the man yell before in my entire life. As though the cars ahead heard him, they all started moving, and resumed normal traffic flow. In a few more minutes, he stopped once more. I expected the same response, but instead….

"We're here," Gabe announced, more in relief than as a statement.

Oswald and I shifted and Gabe opened the door. Like before, Oswald kept his hand on the small of my back. And we walked into the restaurant. This was not as lavish as the French-themed one we'd been to before, but for me, it became an instant favorite.

It had an older-time feel to it. Gingerbread-colored top and bottom borders framed the canary walls; all the pictures were black and white or of grainy value, set behind glass within onyx frames. Stained glass images of cattle, angels, and waterfalls imprinted on lamps hung from the ceiling above every two tables. The ceiling itself seemed to reach high as the sky meeting a triangular peak.

Oswald led me to a table, specifically. Circular-seated chairs with almond-shaped backings were placed on opposing ends; the centerpiece was a vase full of fresh, white lilies. Silverware folded in napkins were placed on opposing ends, adjacent to the other.

I sat in one, and Oswald sat across from me. In front of the centerpiece was a label titled 'Cobblepot'.

"Waiter…." I caught a male who was dressed in red and gold, and he stopped by with a smile.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Do you happen to have a pen that I can borrow for like a minute?" I asked.

Oswald watched in amusement as the waiter dug into this black apron and pulled out a dull pencil, handing it to me. I thanked him sweetly, and he went on his way.

"What are you….?"

"Sh-sh," I said, smirking. "I _just_ had an idea."

I took the label reading his name and started drawing underneath the letters. After a moment passed, the same waiter from whom I had borrowed the pencil stopped by and I gave it back to him, thanking him once more.

"What was that all about?" Oswald asked, glancing at the staff member before turning to look at me.

"Look." I giggled.

He took the label and squinted to see what I had drawn—it was a doodle of a penguin. He chuckled.

"It looks more like a chicken," Oswald admitted.

"How so?"

"The feathers on penguins don't extend outward," Oswald pointed out. "If anything, it looks more like a pigeon."

"So, what, you're an expert on birds?"

Oswald smiled at me: a nonverbal answer of 'yes'.

"Mmm," I sighed. "Perhaps you have a point. I've never seen a penguin with a hand-shaped butt before, that's for sure. _Waiter_!"

I caught a different one this time. This male looked less than amused that I caught him rather than the former who appeared grateful that I had even noticed him.

"Do you have a pen?" I asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Could I borrow it?" I said sweetly, smiling.

"Why?"

"I'd like to draw something," I explained.

He joked, "It'll cost you a pretty penny."

"Please?" I even made puppy dog eyes.

"Fine…." He muttered. Like the last one, he dug into his apron and pulled out an actual pen. He handed it to me.

"Thanks!" I chirped.

Oswald placed his chin in the center of his palm, watching me.

"If you don't get this drawing right, are you going to flag down another one?" Oswald asked, half-seriously.

"Maybe."

"That sounds really cumbersome."

"Cumbersome," I repeated. "But necessary. What about now?"

I placed the label in front of him.

Oswald looked at it again.

"Now the pigeon looks like a swan," He noted. In reference to the new doodle, he asked, "And…. what is that supposed to be?"

"A penguin."

"That doesn't even look _remotely_ like a bird," Oswald criticized, but he was laughing.

"What do you think it looks like?"

"An angry raccoon," Oswald guessed, shrugging. "Or something along the lines of it. What was this supposed to be again?"

I took the label from him saying with a suppressed grin, "A _penguin_."

"Well, I have to admit, Pidge….it looks nothing like it, but I commend your effort."

"Fine. _You_ draw a penguin, and let's see how great it looks."

"No."

"Why not?" I teased. "Afraid I'll make fun?"

Oswald sighed, recognizing a challenge when he heard one. So, without further ado, he took the pen and label, turned it over, and doodled on the other side. In a few minutes, he slid it to me along with the pen. I gave it a look.

"That's…. that's a spot, Ozzie. That's—you literally drew a spot."

" _That's_ a penguin. It's just standing _very,_ _ **very**_ far away," Oswald pointed out. "And you cannot tell me otherwise."

I tried to stifle it but the laugh came out regardless of my effort. And he laughed shortly after.

Then the same waiter from who I had borrowed the pen came by.

"May I have it back?" He asked politely.

"Sure," I said, handing it to him.

He thanked me and walked away.

"I'm glad to see you smiling again," Oswald pointed out.

I shrugged, "It's not hard to do when I'm around you."

Oswald smiled shyly in response and I grinned.

Another waiter came by. He was dressed in the same red and gold with the black apron. He was—in all rights by comparison—a lot older, at least by ten years than the last two. He was well-built with broad shoulders, large hands, and when he placed a menu in front of us, he kept a perfect posture. His beard was well-trimmed and when he spoke, it sounded like he was well-educated.

"Everything served in the kitchen is on the menu, but if I could give a recommendation?" He articulated professionally.

"Sure?" I guessed, glancing curiously at Oswald, who shrugged in response.

The waiter threw out a few suggestions regarding a roasted buffalo and a dessert that had a unique description all on its own.

"What's the name of that dessert again?" I asked.

"It's called…." the waiter cleared his throat in humiliation before repeating reluctantly, "The Orgy."

I stifled a laugh, saying shakily, "What—what does that have in it?"

"Double chocolate chip ice cream, three scoops of candy per the customer's choice, and all of this is spooned into a bowl with a slice of strawberry short-cake and….and a banana," the waiter informed.

His face blushed a shade of pink when he said the word 'banana'.

"Why do _you_ recommend this?" I asked curiously. "Have you had an orgy before?"

"The Orgy," the waiter continued, "is a customer's favorite."

"No, no, no. You misunderstand," I said, leaning towards him. "Have _you_ ever had one?"

"I…. yes, I've eaten the ice cream," said the waiter uncomfortably. "It's phenomenal."

"Good to know," I said, turning back to Oswald.

Oswald shook his head disapprovingly, but suppressed a sly smile of his own.

"Do you need a moment to decide?" The waiter asked.

"On the dinner, yes," I said, smirking at Oswald. "Who needs to think twice about an orgy, though?"

"I'll be back," the waiter said quickly. "My name is William, and I will be server tonight. Please alert me when you are ready."

"Sure thing," I replied, smirking after him.

When he was gone, Oswald and I cracked up.

I giggled. "He's like a beet! Oh my god!" I leaned back in my chair. "Oh, I'm about to fucking piss myself! I needed that. Now, let's see what's on the menu…. did he mention roasted buffalo?"

"Next page," Oswald said without looking up from his menu.

I flipped the page of my menu, and sure as shit—there it was.

"'Bison' and 'Buffalo' are used interchangeably," I noted. "I thought they were different."

"They are." Oswald confirmed. "It's a common mistake."

I sighed saying, "Like when people mistake pigeons for doves and vice versa."

"Exactly."

"They have potato soup," I commented. "If that's not the laziest dish, I don't know what is."

"How do you mean?" Oswald asked, glancing up at me.

"I'll put a bowl of potatoes in front of you, add some broth, butter, and melted cheese, and you'll know what I mean," I returned, smiling widely at him.

"I do not think that is how it's made," Oswald pointed out.

"Then you do _not_ want me to make you potato soup," I responded smartly. "There's a broccoli soup."

"Your formula works accurately for that one," Oswald stated.

"Not exactly. I don't like broccoli. I'm not going to make something that I don't like."

"What if I liked it?" Oswald asked.

"But you don't."

He persisted: "For argument's sake, let's say I _did_."

"I still wouldn't make it," I reasoned. "Unless, maybe, if it was your birthday."

"That's coming up."

"No, it's not," I corrected. "Don't you try that shit again."

Oswald chuckled, lowering his eyes back to his menu.

The waiter by the name of William came by and he stood to our side, awaiting an answer. I lowered my menu and smiled at him. He was about the same age as Oswald and myself, maybe a little older, but there was a youthful look about him in the eyes.

"Do you have a girlfriend, William?" I asked curiously.

Oswald reprimanded, "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

"If it is, he can decline to answer." I offered, smiling kindly at the waiter. "Do you have one?"

"No," he admitted. "I don't."

"Why not?"

"Sylvia."

"What?" I questioned coolly. "If he's feeling uncomfortable, he will let me know…. Won't you, William?"

"I don't know why I am single," William replied, glancing at Oswald then to me. "Why do you ask?"

I shrugged saying, "Just curious."

"Have you decided what to order?" William asked.

"Not just yet," I said, smiling mischievously. "Is William your _real_ name?"

"Yes." He answered then he said quickly, "Should I come back or…."

"Sure, but I have one more question."

"Okay…."

I said softly, "Do you like boys or girls?"

"I'm uncomfortable," William muttered.

"Okay." I said, smiling. "You don't have to answer that one. We'll flag you down when we're ready."

He nodded dutifully and quickly hurried off. I watched him go behind a counter to greet another young couple. When I turned back in my seat, Oswald was staring at me.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"What has gotten into you?" Oswald questioned.

"What has gotten into me when?"

"You're acting different."

"Should I be acting the same?" I replied coolly.

"I don't expect you to act as you've always been but I think you may have crossed the boundary lines with the help."

I chuckled, "I crossed the 'boundary lines'? I'm having _fun_ , Oswald. You know how much I like playing with people."

"You don't think you went a little overboard?" Oswald responded.

"You want to know why I'm acting this way…." I said, smirking at him. "Fine."

I placed the label in front of him. I pointed to the spot that he described as a penguin standing very far away.

"You see a penguin," I said calmly. "I see a spot. What it really is, my lover, is a _dot_. And that's where the line is."

Oswald looked at me pointedly saying, "I don't understand."

"The thing is, the line is _so_ far away, that it's a dot." I uttered darkly. "That's what happened just now—with the waiter. I drew the line, then I stepped over it. That's what Maroni did when he tried to kill you, and that's what Maroni's men tried to do when Mack tried to rape _me_. They made the line a **dot**."

Oswald narrowed his eyes slightly at me. He leaned forward.

"I understand that you're angry, Sylvia, but—"

"Oh yeah, I'm angry. Hell yes, I am _furious_ ," I snapped in hushed tones. "I'm trying to continue—to move on—and make sure my life goes on despite the fucker putting his fingers up my box." I smiled dangerously saying, "How I am currently dealing with it is making people feel embarrassed just as I felt and, _baby_ , it feels **great.** "

"I understand _that,_ " Oswald reassured. "What I _do not_ understand is why you're doing it **here**. You could go out with Victor and have a killing spree and be just as free to do whatever you liked to whomever Falcone wants dead. Why you prefer to embarrass the staff is beyond my understanding."

I leaned back in my seat.

I said honestly, "You know. That never occurred to me. I'm surprised it hasn't yet."

Oswald smiled and said happily, "Options!"

I grinned as well.

"You're right," I said enthusiastically. "I might take you up on that offer. Thank you!"

"You're welcome."

"I'll flag down William. I'm about ready to order. You?"

"Flag him down," Oswald said, holding his hand out to me.

William hesitantly stood at our side.

"I'm sorry for embarrassing you," I said sincerely. "I'm just going through a phase."

"No offense taken," William said kindly. "What can I get you?"

We gave him the orders and then he collected our menus, leaving the table.

I placed my chin on the back of my clasped hands, smirking at Oswald who looked back at me expectantly.

"So…." I sighed. "What did Maroni do to _you_?"

"Tried to do," Oswald corrected. "There's a difference."

"Mm. Enlighten me," I said sweetly. "You said you and Don Maroni were going to talk about whatever at the restaurant. Before I know it, you and him were gone. So, where'd you go?"

"To a cabin in the woods," Oswald replied stoically.

"That sounds like the beginning of a horror movie."

"You have no idea," Oswald muttered.

William walked by and placed our beverages in front of us: Oswald ordered tea; I asked for a coke. He said our dinner would be on the table in about fifteen minutes. We weren't in any hurry, we told him. Relieved that we were relaxed, William said he'd be back for any requests in a few minutes. I turned to Oswald and gestured for him to continue.

"He made a game of it, naturally," Oswald said, rolling his eyes.

"What game?"

"Telling secrets. A game of quid pro quo, so to speak," Oswald explained.

"Like I would tell you a secret, then you'd have to tell me one in return."

Oswald said humorously, "I see you've played before."

I giggled at the joke.

Oswald continued: "He mentioned that he had spoken to Fish on the phone; bitch told him everything. He believed her. Maroni then proceeded to punch me into unconsciousness. Afterwards, he locked me in his trunk and later, he tried to crush me alive in a sedan."

I stared at him, my mouth open.

He took a drink of his tea.

"That's a lot to happen in one night," I noted. "So how did you end up with Falcone in all of this?"

"I escaped," Oswald explained. "I found a bus full of Christians who have an affinity for singing the entire journey _back_ to Gotham." He added sarcastically, "It certainly brought back several memories of my childhood."

He drank another sip of his tea and continued: "Shortly after I returned to Gotham, I spoke with Don Falcone at Mooney's old club."

"Why were you there?"

"Time and circumstance."

"What will happen to Mooney's club?"

Oswald smiled secretively. I noticed it.

"That is actually why I was calling you in the first place," Oswald stated. "He told me I can have the club."

I blinked.

"You're kidding!" I gasped.

"I'm fairly certain I'm not," Oswald returned seriously.

"That's amazing!" I gushed. I held his hand in mine, squeezing it. "Congratulations, Ozzie!"

"Thank you," Oswald said modestly, grinning widely. "I was just as shocked as you are."

"Are you going to redecorate?" I asked excitedly.

"That's the plan," Oswald said, nodding. "Falcone definitely is on board with the remodeling. He doesn't want it to resemble anything like Mooney's."

"Well, tell me your ideas—I know you have plenty!" I implored.

Oswald began to tell me before a noise started going off. I bit back an irritating sigh, recognizing the ringtone. He could recognize it by now as well. I looked at him apologetically.

"Answer it," Oswald encouraged.

I took out my phone from my handbag and answered it.

"Jim." I greeted the caller.

"Are you okay—I heard Cobblepot went public with Falcone."

"Just peachy—like usual," I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Why would I not be okay?"

"You sound like you're lying."

"Maybe I am," I said smoothly.

"Sylvia, are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"I'm not okay, James. But I will be," I said calmly, looking at Oswald who smiled at me. "I've got that Gordon DNA, you know, Jim? That good ole blood that keeps the fire from going out."

Jim was quiet on the other line before he spoke once more: "You don't sound like yourself."

"Funny, I feel like myself." I returned sweetly. "More than ever, actually. How've you been?"

"Fine…. Vee, if something happened, you'd let me know, right?"

"I'll let you know something right now, but you might want to have a seat."

I heard a clutter and recognized it as a chair being scooted across a wooden floor. Jim was _literally_ taking my advice to sit down.

"Tell me."

"Two of Maroni's men ambushed me," I said stoically. "They barricaded the door and one of them sexually assaulted me." (Oswald's smile faltered as I spoke aloud). "He hiked up my skirt, put his fingers inside me, and then tried to rape me. Falcone's men intervened."

"Vee—"

"I'm not finished talking, Jimmy. You wanted to know—so here it is." I responded harshly. "When Falcone arrived, he offered me retribution for what happened to me. I made the guy hard as a rock, put my mouth on his dick, and I bit it off. I shoved it down his throat, shot him in the testicles, and I watched the fucker bleed to death. Falcone patted me on the back, I went home, and now I am having dinner at a lovely restaurant with my wonderful fiancé—a dinner that _you_ are interrupting. Questions?"

Oswald looked at me with both surprise and admiration as I waited for Jim's response.

"Have you told the police about this?"

I chuckled darkly, "What are the police going to do, James? I shot the guy that tried to rape me. If that's not justice, I don't want to know what it is. Now, I would love to chat, but I'm a bit preoccupied. Love you!"

I hung up and placed the phone in my handbag. I looked up at Oswald.

"You're certainly making a quick recovery," He noted.

"Is that what it is?" I uttered smoothly. "I don't know what it is, but I feel like I just _ooze_ confidence...and maybe a little eccentricity."

Oswald's face turned a bright shade of pink. I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed by my lackadaisical behavior or turned on by it. Either way, I placed my purse at my feet and unrolled my napkin.

I started conversationally, "This game of Maroni's intrigues me. Oswald, tell me something about yourself that I don't already know."

He looked at me blankly.

"Anything," I encouraged.

"All right," Oswald said slowly. "Um. When I was five years old, I once tried to eat all the marshmallows in my Lucky Charms cereal box while avoiding the grain alphabet."

I snorted, "That's an interesting start."

Oswald held his hand out to me.

My turn.

"When Jim and I were teenagers—before he went to war—we used to play wrestle in his room," I narrated. "With most brothers or sisters, the brother would always let the sister win due to differences in strength, that sort of thing. But Jim was different."

"How so?" Oswald asked.

"He would do everything he could _not_ to let me win. I mean, these playful wrestling matches would end in blood shed—he'd kick me, I'd bite him—it was a catastrophe!" I laughed. "Every afternoon, when my father was finished with court, he would come home, and he'd see Jim and me locked in each other's grip and shouting at each other to say 'UNCLE'! And then he would break us up."

"How would one determine the victor then," Oswald said curiously, "if your father separated the two of you?"

I said pointedly, "Not every fight happened when Dad was home."

"Who would win?" He asked eagerly.

"Normally it was me," I said proudly, smirking. "He has the strength, the agility, but me—I have the pain tolerance." I took a sip of my coke and added, "But he'll never admit it. He never admitted it before and he won't admit it now."

Oswald said smoothly, "And I thought I knew everything about you, Pidge."

"Not nearly everything," I said, winking. "Your turn."

"I have something, but you might not like it." Oswald admitted, but he was smiling.

"Is it creepy?" I asked.

"In some fashion."

I crossed my arms on the table and leaned forward: "Tell me."

Oswald cleared his throat before speaking and in a shy way, he said, "The first time I saw you wasn't when we were working at Fish Mooney's."

"Really, now?" I said mischievously. "When did we first meet?"

"Not when we first ' _met_ '," Oswald specified. "When I first _saw_ you." (His right hand fiddled with the napkin, unraveling it slowly.) "You were in the Gotham Public Library, studying a book at a table. It was about a year before we officially met."

"Really? Where were _you_?" I asked.

"Behind a book shelf," said Oswald shyly, smiling as such. "You wore a black shirt, jeans, boots…."

His eyes looked past the silverware, the table, like he was going right back to the same moment.

He continued softly, "When you read, you had a habit of twisting your hair around your finger and you noticed no one."

"Well, _not_ no one," I muttered.

Oswald said with the same shy smile, "The book you read fully enveloped you, so much that the loud children reading together in the next cubicle didn't draw your attention. I watched you for only a moment; you stood and left, leaving your book open. I had to know what kept a woman's undivided attention."

I tilted my head to the side.

 _My god, what a memory._

"What was I reading about?" I asked incredulously. " _I_ don't even remember."

"Birds." Oswald blurted. He looked up at me. "An animal encyclopedia. You were reading about penguins."

I blinked and felt a warm pool of adulation wrap itself around my body, like a comforting, electric blanket. Oswald's eyes were bright, and his eyelashes flickered like he, too, was surprised that he had remembered the detail.

"From that moment on," Oswald said quietly. "I'd hoped our paths would cross yet again."

"A year later," I said with a smile, "You and I end up working for the same woman. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is."

"That was my sentiment exactly," Oswald agreed.

"I _do_ like the animal...Penguins, I mean," I said, smiling. "The little babies are so fluffy."

The depth of his love shined from that memory. I leaned forward and kissed him. When he returned it, I reinforced it passionately, and broke it naturally as I sat back in my seat.

The waiter, William, came back.

"The chef notified me that your meal will be ready in ten minutes," William reported.

"Sounds like a plan, Chief," I remarked.

He nodded, then left to get us a refill.

Oswald gestured to me: "Your turn."

"Ah, yes." I mused. "Well…. I do have something, but it's a little...risqué."

"Lay it on me," Oswald implored.

I smiled shyly. A look that he rarely saw on my face. Seeing it now, Oswald smirked.

With _great_ consideration, I took a deep breath and I said "I have something of a reoccurring sexual fantasy. About you."

"Really?" Oswald said, sharing my smile. "Tell me."

"I will," I promised. "But I won't make it easy for you."

"Do you believe I will think badly of you once I hear it?" Oswald asked.

"Honestly? Maybe," I confessed. "You would not be the first person I've had this fantasy about, and if I tell you what it is, you might respond negatively; it wouldn't be the first for that to happen to me."

"I won't judge." Oswald promised. He held out his hand encouragingly. "Please."

"Fine." I said, exhaling completely before I spoke: "My fantasy is that I come home and it's dark. And you come up from behind me, you rip off my clothes, tear them off of me. I start screaming, but you shove my face down into the bed, put a knife against my neck, and you call me your whore…."

I trailed off, and cleared my throat.

"It was a lot easier to say this in my head than actually _say_ it aloud," I muttered.

William came by and placed our entrees down in front of us. I thanked him kindly and he left. I glanced at Oswald who was watching me—not only without judgment, but with intrigue.

"Tell me more," He encouraged.

"It only gets worse," I responded timidly.

We unraveled our forks and knives completely and we started eating. Oswald gestured for me to continue, and I did it now just to get it all out in the open. _Why stop there after all…._ As I spoke, I was aware that while my face was getting hotter, my panties were getting wet from just talking about it.

"When you fuck me, the knife is against my throat. I'm telling you to stop, but it only spurs you on." I said—now I just avoided his gaze and became preoccupied with rolling the tomato around my plate with my fork. "Your hand covers my mouth; I try to escape, but I can't. I'm pinned between the mattress and underneath the weight of your body."

William stopped by again, and I felt my entire face become beet red—just as his was a few moments ago. I chanced a glimpse at Oswald, a small little sly smile on his face that I couldn't help but notice. William asked if we wanted to order any alcoholic beverages. Oswald declined, and I did as well.

 _Maybe later to drown my humiliation._

Oswald smiled at me when the waiter left once more.

"Keep going," He said.

I continued: "We go on like that for hours….and when I come, I come like I haven't before. It's so intense, my body convulses, I lose control."

I looked at him. My entire body was lit on fire with embarrassment.

Then seeing him...His lips were parted, his eyes narrowed slightly like he was just imagining the entire scenario clear as day in his head. I cleared my throat, downed my full glass of coke, and patted my lips with my shriveled napkin which I'd been inadvertently unraveling and shredded with my other hand as I revealed my fantasy.

"Wow." Oswald sighed deeply. "That…. that is very…."

I waited for the rejection, the statement that I was odd or something like that. But it never came.

"That's very uncanny," Oswald said finally.

I stared at him.

"What?" I breathed.

Oswald licked his lips and said, "It is uncanny that you would have this idea since the same thought has occurred to me as well. Almost entirely as you described."

"Well, I..." I began but stopped myself. And I smiled: "What do you mean 'almost'?"

Oswald smirked: "Yes, Pigeon. 'Almost'. The only difference between yours and mine is that you are on your stomach, not your back. It has a certain element of surprise that your fantasy lacks."

"Such a critic," I teased, leaning back in my chair. "How many times have you thought about it?"

"Any time you come home late," Oswald confessed. "You?"

"Same," I sighed, smirking.

Oswald's smile sobered and he asked with a little concern, "Have the recent events changed it any?"

I shrugged saying, "Not really. What happened in the office was out of my control—every aspect of it was. But this fantasy I have with you, the one we're talking about…. it's all within a certain amount of control. If we did this, I know without a doubt that you would not truly hurt me whereas Mack was a fucking pig and his every intention _was_ bent on physical harm."

Oswald tilted his head slightly at my objective response.

"You have an interesting insight," He noted.

I said smoothly, "When you've had a DA for a father and a detective for a brother, you kind of learn to see everything objectively."

"Does it make it any easier to deal with what happened?" Oswald asked.

"On some levels," I said calmly. "I suppose that I still feel guilty that it all happened the way it did. I _know_ it isn't my fault" (Oswald was about to say it wasn't) "but that doesn't make me feel any less helpless or angry about what happened."

I placed my hand on his.

"Talking to you about it has made me feel a little better about the ordeal," I confided. "It may not seem like it, but you still make me feel safe. Protected. That is a lot more than what anyone else has ever done for me."

"Even Jim Gordon?" Oswald suggested.

"Especially Jim Gordon," I agreed strongly. "But…. I have to give credit where credit is due; I never thought the pizza codes would come in handy."

Oswald smiled saying, "I thought it was brilliant."

"All Jim," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "He taught me that."

"I am glad he did," He said sincerely.

There was a natural silent pause in our conversation during which we ate some of the dinner, glancing up at each other to smile and then continue eating. It wasn't that awkward silence one would experience with their parents or their two-month-running girlfriend. It was such a comfortable silence that I didn't have to feel like I had to speak about anything to make it tolerable.

Oswald drank the rest of his tea and placed the cup down with a finality.

"I have an idea for the club that might interest you," He said smoothly.

"Color me intrigued."

"In the process of me getting together a list of entertainment, I figured you would be interested in being a part of it," Oswald said lightly. "If you wanted to sing on stage, I would be happy to grant you the opportunity."

I said politely, "I'm flattered, but I don't want to sing."

Oswald looked taken aback saying, "I thought you'd like to."

"I don't. I sing well," I said confidently. "I've been told that by several people, you included. I know I sing well, but singing in front of people gives me the heebie jeebies."

"You sing beautifully."

"I know. But not everyone who sings well wants to be a singer. Just like every person who is good at math doesn't want to become an accountant or a mathematician."

"Then what _do_ you want?"

"A job," I said simply. "The same one, if possible. Working in the restaurant is a no-go now that the cat is out of the bag; Maroni will find someone else to work the restaurant now that you and I have been officially fired."

Oswald chuckled, "Pigeon, you don't have to work for me."

"I _like_ working for you," I insisted. "I like having you as a boss. Makes me feel needed, wanted…. Not to mention it's fucking sexy as hell."

"I thought you hated the reputation."

"It grew on me," I said, shrugging. "When you really look at it, you're my fiancé who just _happens_ to be my boss. Someone from the inside doesn't see it as an insult like someone from the outside would. And I don't mind the perks."

"Such as?"

"I get to sleep with you in your office," I said slyly, winking at him.

"Is that a perk?"

"I'd call it one."

William dropped by again. I welcomed him and said, "Are you still offering alcoholic beverages?"

He nodded.

"I'll take a glass of vodka. Is the ice cream still available—what's it called again?"

"The Orgy."

I burst out laughing and the waiter glanced helplessly at Oswald.

William cleared his throat uncomfortably saying, "I'll be back with your order, ma'am."

"I'll manage your staff," I said, gathering my giggles under control, "So you can worry about everything else: the entertainment, the finances, blah, blah, blah…."

"What of your adventures with Victor Zsasz?" Oswald questioned. "I'm assuming you are still aspiring to be a contracted killer?"

I sighed, "Don't know. We'll see."

"Don't you still have a deal with him?" Oswald recalled.

"I do, but he said I could back out anytime," I returned calmly. "We've had one 'adventure' together and that's when he shot Bob in the head, and he calls me his 'student'. If I go on three more, he'll refer to me as his daughter." I added as an afterthought, "It wouldn't be a bad thought if he was the one sending me off during the wedding; it'd be a lovely ceremony, actually."

William came back with my ice cream and the glass of vodka I asked for.

Seeing this legendary orgasmic dairy dessert was something to be put on one's bucket list. It filled an entire bowl and underneath the chocolate ice cream was, indeed, a slice of strawberry shortcake and one long-ass banana. I took a spoonful and tried to get everything on it and took a bite.

I smiled widely.

"My **god**!" I exclaimed. "It's like the ice cream and cheesecake fucked all night and had themselves a banana chocolate child and named it 'Hosanna'." I took another spoonful and held it over the bowl to Oswald.

"Taste it," I said.

"I would rather not."

"Do it." I urged, and I poked the spoon against his nose.

"Sylvia…."

"Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it—"

"Alright!" Oswald said loudly. He took my spoon and put it in his mouth. Then a look of genuine surprise and satisfaction replaced the slighted annoyed expression on his face.

"Good, yeah?" I said, smirking.

"It certainly deserves its name," Oswald uttered.

"Its true name? No," I mused, "Now if there were five bowls on the table, _that_ would be an orgy."

"That's going overboard, I think."

"Don't think, Ozzie. Just eat. Grab a spoon."

"Sylvia—"

I took several swigs of vodka, choked it down, and ate three spoons of the ice cream for the chaser. I slammed the cup down, and offered another bite to Oswald.

"Sylvia, no."

"SAY YES TO LIFE!" I screamed.

Everyone in the diner glanced around at us.

"Alright, I believe it is time to go." Oswald said gently. He gingerly took the spoon away from me. "Come on, Sylvia."

A man in the back said, "Woo! YOLO!"

"FUCK YOU!" I shouted. "It's not fucking 'YOLO'. That makes no sense—you only die once, you live every day." I said to Oswald, "Unless one believes in reincarnation, but that's a whole different philosophical bend that adolescent concepts don't apply."

"Point proven, Pidge, keep moving."

I was dimly aware of being led out of the diner and taken home.


	10. His Queen

Chapter Ten: His Queen

A/N: I had a lot more fun writing this than I should have ;)

* * *

Oswald began to take a permanent residence in my humble abode. We'd spoken about living together many times in the past but the 'incident in the office' had only reinforced the point. I had a brief meeting with my land lord who had no qualms as I always had my rent paid on time, and he'd received very few noise complaints. True to his word, Oswald appointed Tomas as my body guard.

Tomas and I were well acquainted. In the past, he'd driven me from place to place. As Gabe recalled, Tomas had originally been one of Frankie Carbone's men but after being given a substantial pay rise, the dark-haired muscular man that he was belonged to Oswald.

Because Tomas was going to be around me for the better part, I refused for him to sleep on the couch.

It was his first day alone with me as I made up a guest room which was down the hall from my bedroom. As I was making the bed, Tomas stood in the doorway with watchful eyes, and an otherwise stoic expression. Like Gabe, he wore a suit; he wore a slate gray jacket over a charcoal long-sleeve shirt, and matching gray tie. He was a man of few words; he rarely spoke unless spoken to.

I glanced back at Tomas who continued to watch me even when I met his eyes.

"See something you like, Tomas?" I questioned calmly.

"Not at all," He responded.

I tested his loyalty. After being touched by a pig like Mack, I shuddered at any man touching me ever again…. except Oswald, of course. Now that I would have another man living under my roof, I needed that assurance, the knowing that if I decided to have a few shots of whiskey, he wouldn't betray my trust.

"'Not at all'?" I repeated, straightening. "You don't think I am attractive?"

"You're very beautiful," Tomas said calmly, remaining poised in the doorway. "Anyone can see that."

I smiled saying, "What exactly did Penguin ask you to do?"

He answered, "To protect you."

"What were his exact words."

"I don't understand," Tomas replied, his voice was robotic.

I approached him, and he didn't flinch. He stood taller than me, taller than Oswald even. I tilted my head back even to meet his eyes as I stood directly in front of him. He returned my gaze with a blank one.

"Tell me his exact instructions."

"He said that I should protect you, no matter the cost." Tomas said truthfully. "He didn't give me any specifics."

I narrowed my eyes at him, seeing if he would fold under my stare. When he didn't, I clicked my tongue and waved my hand to the bed.

"This is your room," I said. "I changed the sheets. The room has been used a few times, but my brother has a tendency to go to a buddy's place than sleep at mine."

Tomas said seriously, "Your brother…. the detective?"

"The one and only," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "Don't worry about him. He doesn't visit as often as he used to."

"Why is that?"

"Who knows—when he gets dumped again, maybe he will," I replied sarcastically. "I hear he's dating some doctor lady working at Arkham. We'll see how long this one lasts. I'll give you the grand tour, if you like."

"I'd love one, Ma'am."

I gestured for him to follow and he did. He kept his hands clasped in front of him. The way he walked reminded me of a boy who had grown too quickly, and hadn't been able to experience childhood. And to me, he was that—a boy. He was at least five years younger than me, mid-twenties. Despite his youth, the way he spoke was always in a deep voice and very professional.

I presented the bathroom, the kitchen, and what was now my and Oswald's bedroom.

"And there's the grand tour," I chuckled, crossing my arms. "Do you have a girlfriend, Tomas?"

"No, Ma'am."

"Well, I doubt that will last forever," I mused, smirking. "You're Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding. I'm sure you'll find one eventually. So, I'll just lay the rules out now, shall I?"

"If you like."

"Then I will. If you _do_ get a girl…. or a guy…. whomever—they may spend the night, but you will be responsible for whatever they break, take, what-have-you." I told him calmly as I strode in the kitchen (And he followed, naturally). "I don't like parties and there's a certain twenty-four hour quiet-time in this complex. If you ever wish to have a place for yourself within the complex, let me know; the landlord and I have a mutual liking and he can be persuaded."

Tomas smiled kindly saying, "You're so certain he would give me a place?"

"One-hundred ten percent certain," I reassured, smiling. "He has a crush on me."

Tomas frowned.

"Don't be concerned," I comforted, tapping his shoulder. "It's nothing sordid. He's sixty years old and he's married with two children. I'm just eye candy."

"Should I talk to this man?" Tomas asked darkly.

"Like I said. Don't be concerned." I emphasized. "He's _happily_ married."

Tomas sat at the dining table. His hands went underneath and his eyes widened. Curious, he bent over and he pulled out a weapon. His look of surprise made me laugh.

"There's also a gun behind the refrigerator, toilet, and a knife taped under the sink," I informed casually. "On my side of the bed, I have a switch blade, so if you ever _do_ feel the need to wake me up in the middle of the night, please announce yourself."

"Duly noted," Tomas exhaled wearily. He looked around, saying, "Do you have any actual security system? Like a burglar alarm?"

"No. Do you think I need one?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Tomas said calmly. "If I can't protect you, then the police would still be coming, regardless of what happens to me."

I sighed, "People depend on the police way too much in this city."

"You said your brother was a detective."

"He's only one man," I debated. "And he isn't the first to hear of anything that happens to me. He's normally the last."

"May I ask why?" Tomas said politely, standing.

"You could, but it would bore you," I stated bluntly. "You are paid to protect me—not to listen to the in-and-outs of my family drama. Isn't that right?"

He nodded dutifully. And just as he did, there was a knock on the door.

"Were you expecting anyone?" Tomas questioned briskly.

"No, but—"

"Stay here," Tomas instructed, holding his hand out.

 _Wow, he's another James Gordon_.

I sighed, rolling my eyes before opening the refrigerator carelessly. I took out a chilled bottle of whiskey, placing noisily on the counter before taking a glass from the cabinet. Tomas glanced back at me, annoyed, but he inched forward to the door.

There was another knock.

I strode forward, but Tomas pulled me aside. He pulled his gun out of his jacket and wrenched open the door. Oswald stood in the doorway with Tomas' gun staring him right in the face. When Tomas saw that it was him, he immediately put the safety back on and shoved it in his inner pocket.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, boss, I thought—" Tomas exclaimed.

Oswald held a hand up, silencing him. He was smiling.

"It's nice to know you're doing your job," Oswald praised, moving past him. "You've met Gabe before, haven't you?" He referred to the large man that accompanied him inside the apartment, holding two big brown bags.

"Why didn't you say it was him?" Tomas questioned of Gabe, looking more annoyed than ever. "I could have shot Penguin!"

"He wanted to test you," Gabe explained lowly. "And pipe down, man, you passed."

I glanced at the men before turning to Oswald who smiled happily at me.

"How was your meeting with the land lord?" He asked.

"Uneventful," I answered. "But it went well. I just finished making the guest room, laying down the rules—that sort of thing. How's the renovation?"

Oswald gestured for Gabe to come hither and the latter strode into the kitchen, placing the brown paper bags on top of the table then strolled back into the living room to continue his conversation of what-have-you with Tomas, who crossed his arms while speaking.

I peeked inside the bags. I couldn't suppress a smile when I realized they were groceries. I gave it a glance before turning to Oswald for an explanation.

"You've cooked for me many times," Oswald said, taking my hand. "I thought I would make dinner tonight for a change."

"I've never had a man cook for me," I said coyly. "You spoil me."

"You make it too easy," Oswald responded, smiling.

"And you went grocery shopping with Gabe?"

"He knows steak better than the butcher," Oswald said—a compliment that didn't go unheard by Gabe, who grinned at the approval.

He and Gabe were discussing some sport or another.

I rolled my eyes, muttering, "Men."

"Don't I know," He agreed, looking at them both.

"Gotham Knights are gonna win this summer," Gabe insisted, gesticulating passionately.

"They haven't won _all_ year," Tomas argued. "You'll be switching to the Gotham Griffins before nightfall!"

"What are you all arguing about?" I questioned.

"Baseball," Gabe and Tomas answered simultaneously as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

" _Unbelievable_ ," Oswald said under his breath, rolling his eyes.

He moved past me and started putting away the groceries, ignoring them.

"Look, _look_!" Gabe turned on the television, walked to the screen, and pointed furiously at it. "Do you see those scores? Look at that—your team is garbage, man."

"They're having a bad day," Tomas agreed. "But they'll be up in the winnings. They just need to get rid of a few people and they'll be at the top before you know it."

"Top? What top?" Gabe guffawed. "They're barely in the middle!"

I snickered, "You traded two grown bodyguards for a couple of kids, Ozzie."

Oswald said pointedly, "Tell me something I don't know."

"Well, first things first, you put the milk in the cabinet and the cereal in the refrigerator."

He let out a sigh of exasperation. He rectified his mistake just as Gabe and Tomas were starting in about placing bets on whose team would win and whose team would be the top of some weird diagram (I don't know sports). Oswald slammed the cereal box on the counter, making all parties (myself included) jump.

" _Take_ it outside," Oswald said irritably, gesturing to the door. "Or change the _god_ forsaken topic!"

Gabe and Tomas exchanged uneasy looks.

"Wanna go get a drink?" Gabe asked Tomas, who looked at me inquisitively.

"I'm fine," I said. "Go with him. Please."

Tomas and Gabe patted each other on the back like brothers, closing the door on their way out. I turned to Oswald who sighed sharply in frustration.

"Remodeling a club is putting a lot of stress on you, huh?" I said knowingly as I poured the whiskey into a shot glass and tossed it back; the after taste made my jaw clench, but damn, did it feel good.

"The remodeling, no." Oswald said briskly.

"Then what?"

"It's nothing," he said dismissively. "I've had a headache all day."

"I can punch you in the balls, that should take your mind off of that," I responded smartly, pouring another whiskey shot and downing it easily.

Oswald gave me a look of mixed irritation and confusion.

I apologized, "That's what I used to tell Jim when he complained about anything. But in all honesty, I can see you're exhausted. I'll make dinner tonight."

"Sylvia—"

"I have two shots of whiskey in me already, babe," I warned in a sweet voice. "I'm getting my way."

He rolled his eyes at me, but he didn't outwardly object.

I unbuttoned his jacket; he shrugged it off and laid it across the kitchen table, and loosened his tie. Softly, I said, "Take a shower, take time to decompress. I'll make dinner, we'll eat and…well…. we'll go from there, hmm?"

I tugged the collar of his shirt towards me, and pulled him into a kiss. My tongue teased the line where his lips met and he gave into me. My other hand dropped between us and I palmed his cock through his pants. Feeling the pressure of my hand groping him, Oswald let out a quiet involuntary moan; and I couldn't suppress the smirk that tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"Or we could skip the shower and dinner altogether," I suggested furtively.

I unzipped his pants, unbuckled his belt, and slid my hand inside his trousers and boxers, rubbing my fingers along his naked semi-erection, still growing in my hand. He held my shoulders, fingertips digging. Our kiss became hungrier. I prodded his tongue with my own, moving the battle into his mouth, dominating.

"That might be best, actually," Oswald muttered, his hands fell to my waist, pushing me back a little.

I laid kisses from his jaw to his ear and purred, "Mm….and why is that?"

"Deadline for reopening is twenty-four hours."

"As according to whom?"

"Who do you think?" Oswald responded sardonically.

He started to push me aside. I took him by the shoulders and shoved him back against the refrigerator; the appliance vibrated, and the contents inside rattled. Oswald's eyes widened at my reaction and I smiled at him.

"I told you to decompress," I said firmly. "Worrying about deadlines is _not_ decompressing."

Oswald stiffened, retorting, "I think you've had enough to drink, Sylvia."

"On a contrary, baby, I haven't had enough." I said, smirking.

I shoved my mouth against his—the fire from the whiskey erupted in my belly; I could feel it flowing through every vessel in my body. It was going to my head. I lined my fingers along the nape of his neck, my thumb grazing down his throat. I rolled my hips into his; his hard-on pressed against my stomach.

His hands were on my hips, feeling my body move against him. To regain control, Oswald started to reach for my neck; I caught it and just like the rest of him, I pinned his wrist against the refrigerator.

"You have such a controlling nature," I chuckled darkly. "You really need to learn to let go."

I backed off. And the sight of him so disheveled, his shirt was no longer tucked in, his pants unzipped and his cock was fully erect; he was pink in the face—it was just too great.

I returned back to unpacking the grocery bags like nothing happened. Then I felt him move behind me. He reached for my shoulders, spun me around and seized my mouth with his. Oswald pushed himself against me, grinding his cock between my legs; the friction was too delicious that I let it go on for a moment before I shoved him off me.

"Is that all you got?" I taunted.

He grabbed for me again, but I jumped back. I ran into the bedroom, waited behind the door. When he strode inside, I came out of hiding, and I pushed him forward on the bed; he glared at me indignantly from his back. I straddled his waist.

"What the _hell_ has gotten into you?" Oswald snapped.

Seeing his eyes blazing, I knew he was getting pissed off—if he wasn't already. But that's what I wanted. He shifted underneath me, but I remained sitting on him. He tried to sit up; I placed my hand on his chest and moved him onto his back once more.

"You're not meeting any deadlines," I told him smoothly.

"Falcone expressly said—"

"Falcone is _not_ in charge here, **I** am!" I retorted hotly.

Oswald's eyes widened at my response. I leaned forward and kissed his forehead, his nose, and met his lips with a contrasting softness that hadn't been displayed in the kitchen.

"I told you that you needed to learn to let go," I said as I unbuttoned his vest and shirt. "If only for a moment. Now, sit up."

He did as I said, however irritably. I collected his shirt and vest and dropped them on the floor beside the bed. Once more, I leaned forward and kissed his lips. As annoyed as he was, he didn't return it—not that I expected him to.

"I've given myself to you many times," I told him. "My submission is a gift. Just like yours will be."

"I am _not—_ "

I clamped my hand over his mouth, forcing him once more on his back. He hissed behind my palm.

"Trust me, baby. If you didn't like this idea, you wouldn't be lying down for it…. literally. You have no restraints" (I indicated the free movement of his arms and legs) "and you have _yet_ to tell me 'no'."

Oswald glared up at me in defiance, and oh my lord, did I love seeing it.

"It'll stay between us. No one will ever know." I confided. "I can give you what you are afraid to ask for."

I removed my hand from his mouth, and he just stared at me—but I could see the wanton in his eyes. I stood and closed the bedroom door, locking it. Oswald slowly sat up.

"Now…. if you feel me crossing a boundary, _do_ tell me." I said, approaching the end of the bed.

He nodded in understanding.

"Good. Now get undressed." I ordered.

At first, he hesitated, and I waited. He looked like he might protest but with some afterthought, he stood to his feet and shuffled out of his pants and boxers. I smiled when he also took his shoes and socks off. When he sat back down on the bed, the pink his face became red: humility. But that cock of his had never been stiffer.

I pulled my shirt over my head, unbuttoned my jeans, and I shimmied out of them so I was left in black lingerie. Oswald took me in, his lips parted a little. When I approached him, he held out his hands to touch me. I took them in my own, and placed them on my stomach, and guided them up my sides, my ribs, and then over my breasts. They lingered there over the lacy fabric, before I continued to guide them down my body, past my stomach, and then over my thighs. He watched his hands as if they were not his own, transfixed.

"Move to the middle of the bed."

Oswald did as he was told, reluctantly. I joined him there.

"Do you trust me, Oswald?"

He nodded.

"Who is in charge?"

Oswald said calmly, "You."

"And what am I to you?" I asked softly.

He opened his mouth to answer, only to realize he didn't know.

"Trick question," I snickered. "I never said."

He sent me a glare.

"I've always said you're my King of Gotham," I mused, lying down on the bed. I slipped off my panties and bra. "In medieval times, the king ruled over everyone: the peasants, his knights, the entire realm. Anyone who stepped forward to contest him was put to death, or worse. When the King summoned, the people answered. He, however, answered to no one."

Oswald's eyes were dilated even before I began touching myself: one hand on my breast, the other cupping my sex. I slowly circled my index and middle finger around my clit, feeling the small sparks of pleasure tickle my brain and stoke the burning, aching feeling between my legs.

Stifling the moan that tried to escape, I continued: "And just as the King answers to no one, he _bows_ to no one. No one, but his Queen. Taking from that narrative, Ozzie. I'll ask again. What am I to you?"

Oswald moved closer to me.

"A Queen," He whispered.

"Good boy," I praised, smiling widely. "Now bow to _me_."

Completely willing, Oswald moved between my legs, his hands on my inner thighs as he lowered his head to my fingers that rotated around my swollen clit, kissing them. Every action he made was meticulous and gentle, but I could sense his controlling nature trying to break out; he held back a lot of restraint not to flip me on my stomach and shove his swollen member into me.

He kissed my fingers again as I continued to tease my clit, before he dipped down and licked between my wet folds. I allowed my head to fall back into the mattress, closing my eyes when his tongue delved deeper inside.

"That's it, baby," I mumbled. "Oh my god, yes…."

Oswald pushed my hand away from my clit, flicking his tongue over the bundle of nerves. I glanced down to see him do so, and his eyes met mine. He was watching my every reaction, holding onto every whisper and moan of approval. I tangled my hand in his hair, pulling the soft locks and I felt a pleasurable chill shoot down my spine when I heard him moan—the sound alone was titillating but the vibrations it caused nearly pushed me over the edge, involuntarily arching my back.

I felt two fingers push inside my pussy. In an instant, my nails dug into the comforter beneath me; I heard the naughty, wet sounds my body was making as he thrusted them in and out of me. My toes curled, my neck tensed, and I nearly forgot to breathe!

"Fuck!" I whimpered—I felt the knot tighten in my belly, my body becoming desperate for release.

 **Not yet.**

I pushed Oswald away from me, grabbed a handful of his hair and shoved my mouth on his. I tasted my excitement on his tongue, and I grinned widely when I heard him moan in need.

"Get on your back." I commanded.

He quickly complied. I straddled his waist, and saw the precum leaking from the slit of his cock.

"You enjoyed that more than me, I think," I taunted, wrapping my hand around his taut member. "Is that right?"

"Yes…."

"Yes, _what_?" I asked firmly. I rubbed the head of his cock against my wet entrance.

Oswald responded, "Yes, my Queen."

"Mm…. you're a quick learner," I mused. "Then again, I knew that already."

Oswald clutched at the comforter, his knuckles white. The mixed look of pain and pleasure on his face made me grin. I couldn't help but feel just a little sadistic about this whole thing. I slipped a finger inside my pussy, fingering myself until I covered my whole hand in my excitement and used it to coat his cock. He groaned, the muscles in his neck tensing as well as the rest of him.

"Please…." Oswald whimpered.

"What's the matter, baby?" I cooed.

His jaw tightened as I rolled his cock in my hands.

"You want to be inside of me, don't you, big boy?" I teased. "What if I chose to leave you like this? What if I chose to walk away? What would you do?"

"Sylvia, please."

I moved my hand underneath him, kneading his balls gently in my hand. This seemed to be the kicker.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasped.

"Beg for it, Ozzie." I told him softly. "I want you to beg to be inside of me."

He glared up at me—ah, that defiance.

I squeezed his cock in my hand, and he let out a needy whimper.

" _Stop_ trying to resist," I demanded. "You want something from me, I need to hear it from you first."

Oswald seemed to struggle with the terms. Then I began to stand.

"Please, pigeon," Oswald pleaded, his voice was strained in desire. "Please, I beg of you!"

I grinned down at him: "Was that so hard?"

I lined him beneath my pussy and slowly sank down. His moan caught in his throat as I started finding a pace; his hips lifted to mine eagerly. Oswald reached up to touch me; I grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head; his hands balled into fists.

"Give into it," I urged. "Let. Go."

I kissed him, hard enough that it hurt. He groaned into my mouth but I felt his body slacken, the tension slowly leaving.

"That's it, baby," I cooed. "That's it. Give in just like that."

The pace quickened, I bounced harder, feeling his cock shove deep inside of me. The headboard hit the wall each time I sank down on him. His once stifled moans became loud, and unrestrained. I kept his wrists pinned above him, but I smiled when his hands relaxed.

"I'm close," Oswald keened. "Please, pigeon, don't stop…. _fuck_ …."

I rode him hard, my own release quickly approaching. I had no intentions of stopping, and the sounds he made only spurred me on. When his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his back arched, that was all I needed to see before my orgasm struck home. My walls tightening around him. His body nearly convulsed as I felt his cock twitch and release himself inside of me. I sighed deeply; he was panting, but I had never seen him look more content.

I slowly raised my hips and he slid out of me.

"I'll get dinner started," I said softly.

I kissed his cheek; he turned his head so it landed on his lips and he passionately reciprocated.

"Thank you," Oswald murmured.

"Don't mention it," I said lovingly. "For what it's worth, vulnerability looks good on you—but only when I cause it." I winked at him, and he looked after me for a few seconds before he started getting dressed again.

After all, he had to meet a deadline.


	11. I Meet Lee Thompkins

Chapter Eleven: I meet Lee Thompkins

* * *

I stood inside the club, newly renamed 'Oswald's'. Instead of the red, pinkish lights that hung around the club, it was replaced with blue décor. Replacing Mooney's symbol of a fish outside was the cerulean-colored, neon sign of an umbrella. In the past twenty-four hours, with Oswald's help, Falcone had completely mitigated any sign that the woman had even run this place. It had been a few days since its reopening—the entertainment sounding on the stage were violinists, and a flutist.

Not many people occupied the tables; it was almost dead.

I touched the counter tops at the bar, noting the gleaming ebony. Standing to my right was Tomas, my constant body guard. As promised, Oswald had given me what I wanted: a job. Like my last job in the restaurant, I knew every foot soldier and their work schedules. The bartenders wore red and gold jackets, black slacks—the other staff wore the similar garb, refilling the patrons' drinks and that sort of thing.

Just as Tomas and I were speaking in low tones, Tomas suddenly stiffened. I looked over my shoulder to see Maroni and two of his minions approaching. Discreetly, Tomas reached into his jacket as Maroni stood within a few feet of my personal bubble. I made a point, taking a few steps back.

"Calm down," Maroni said happily, smiling at Tomas. "I'm only here on business."

I nodded for my guard to do as the Don advised, but I kept a close eye on the latter.

"You look well," Maroni commented, noting my put-together appearance. "I'm pleased to see my men didn't hurt you too badly."

I took a long, deep breath before saying politely, "I'm sorry about what happened to Mack, Don Maroni."

"Are you really?"

"No," I admitted sarcastically. "It's a shame when a man's dick falls off and his testicles spontaneously combust. I hope the coroner figures out how that happened so the docs can find a cure for that sort of thing."

Maroni smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. The men behind him grumbled in dismay.

"Let's not stand on ceremony, huh?" Maroni said coldly. "I _know_ what you did to Mack."

"Hmm. So, you know. Why, then, are you here?" I questioned, crossing my arms.

"I spoke with your little bird husband—oh sorry…. _fiancé_ ," Maroni said, smirking. "Told him what I am about to tell you."

"Which is?"

"You and I are okay. I talked with Falcone," said Maroni, shrugging modestly. "I just came here to tell you that whenever Falcone is out of the picture, you will be too. And I owe you for what you did to my friend."

"Your ' _friend_ ', Don Maroni, sexually assaulted me and tried to rape me," I said through gritted teeth. "Any of your people try anything like that again, I'll sodomize them with a crow bar."

Maroni grinned widely saying, "I miss that fire of yours, Sylvia. I always liked that about you. I'll be seeing you later." He winked and then left.

I had never wanted to hurt him so badly in my entire life. My guard said nothing, even though I was certain that he wanted to say plenty. A professional like him was chivalrous and he detested anyone that dared to threaten me.

I considered the possibility that it was because he was paid to be that way. But I was starting to see that Tomas seemed to generally respect me. After all, I treated him kindly, and I had given him a place to sleep within my own home.

I gathered the staff all in the middle, and spoke with a few of them individually, in regards to customs such as trash pick-up, the working hours of the club itself, and if any of them had child care arranged during their absence. When a few noted that they hadn't arranged any plans regarding their kids, I gave them recommendations of daycare. I took down their names, as well as their addresses and reliable callback information.

I stood on a chair as I was shorter than the rest of the staff and looked at them all.

"All right people, eyes on me."

They all turned in my direction.

"I have one more question before we get this day going," I said smoothly. "Is anyone here a cop?"

I received blank stares.

"Just kidding," I jested, smirking. They all tittered and I hopped down off the chair. Tomas helped me down.

"What was the point of that question?" Tomas asked curiously.

"About the cop thing?"

He nodded, looking around at the staff, all of whom were going back to their places as bartenders, greeters, and the like.

"I like to know who these people are," I divulged. "That reminds me. Tomas," (he looked at me expectantly) "Check and make sure these addresses are correct."

I handed him the sheet of paper on which the staff had written their information. He scanned it and looked at me pointedly, asking, "What exactly do you want me to look into?"

"Just make sure it checks out," I told him coolly. "If any of these people are still loyal to Fish Mooney, I have to make sure they know who is really in charge."

"You think they'd try to contest the boss?" asked Tomas skeptically.

"No, but it doesn't hurt to suspect that," I offered. "I often times pretend it's a game."

"A game of what?"

"Chess."  
"I don't follow," Tomas muttered.

I patted his shoulder, and pulled him to the side. He had to lower and tilt his head to me so as to hear me since he and I didn't stand ear-to-ear.

"In chess, the pawns go first, the King stays idle for the most part. But the Queen can jump ten spaces in any direction." I told him smoothly. "And she does whatever she must to protect the king."

Tomas smiled saying, "So all of this" (he referred to the contact information) "is so you can protect Mr. Cobblepot?"

"Bingo."

"He's trying to protect _you_ ," said Tomas with a small snicker.

"He needs me to protect him from himself," I offered sweetly. "I like to be his eyes and ears when I can. He's been successful so far—getting this club—and I want him to enjoy the victory without having to worry about unsuspecting characters…. like the people working for him, for example."

"And if I find proof that any of these people are actively working against Penguin—what do you want me to do?" Tomas inquired.

"You do nothing," I whispered. "If they're working against Oswald, they are enemies of Falcone. Falcone put Oswald in charge. Tell them that. If they still don't get with the program, well, that's why I have their addresses and that's what guns are for, right? Call me first before you do anything so I can start the hiring process. With the club up and running, we really can't afford to be short-manned."

"Roger that, Ma'am."

He made a small bow before he went about his merry way. Gabe came up from behind, startling me in the process as he said, "Place is looking good, isn't it, Miss G?"

"Goddamn it, Gabe...you can't be sneaking up behind me like that," I exhaled.

"Sorry. Do you want one?" He asked, holding out a box.

"One of what?"

"An invitation. I'm handing them out to everyone on the list."

"Am I on the list?" I questioned.

"Well, no…."

"Then why are you giving me one?" I snickered.

Gabe shrugged, "I figured you of all people might like one."

"I _work_ here, Gabe."

"I know, but it'd be like a memento. And there'll be plenty of them left."

I glanced inside the box and saw the sleek design of the invitations. Ebony background. Arctic blue calligraphy spelled out 'Oswald's'. I took one, opening it up. The invitation itself began with 'You have been cordially invited' and I chuckled, looking at Gabe.

"These are nice, Gabriel," I praised. "I bet Oswald liked these."

"Yeah, he did."

I looked around and noticed his absence—Maroni had certainly pushed a whirlwind of distractions to me that I hadn't even noticed Oswald's absence.

Suddenly worried, I asked, "Where is he?"

"Don't worry; he's been out and about. He went to give someone an invitation personally, couple days ago."

"To whom?"

"Your brother."

I looked at Gabe, thinking he was joking. It wasn't often that Gabe joked, but when he did, it always took me off guard. When he appeared solemn, I figured he wasn't.

"Well, he may be disappointed," I sighed, placing the invitation back in its box.

"You don't think Gordon would come?" Gabe asked. "Penguin's done a lot for him—like the thing with Flass and all."

"Yeah, well, you don't know my brother," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

"He don't like playing dirty, huh?" Gabe said pointedly. "Seemed pretty happy when I gave him the goods on Flass. I think he'd come to the club after that."

"No," I said patiently. "To him, Oswald is no better than a dirty cop. He wants nothing to do with this part of my life unless it benefits his case specifically."

"No offense, Miss G…. You're gonna put a strain on the thing with your brother, do **this** type of thing, so you can marry **this** guy?" Gabe said, holding up the invitation with my fiancé's name on it.

"Honestly, Gabe, it's not a hard choice." I admitted.

With a tinge of jealousy, Gabe noted, "Penguin's lucky."

"I suppose so." I commented. Then to change the topic, "Who else do you have to deliver to?"

"Not a lot of people left."

"Need any help?"

"Nah., I got it, Miss G."

"Suit yourself," I sighed, shrugging. "I'm going to visit my brother, see if I can't tease him about his new girlfriend. When you see Oswald, will you let him know where I have gone?"

"Sure thing."

"Thanks!" I called back as I left the club.

* * *

As I entered the GCPD, I was met with an array of many colors and suddenly I had several questions.

Why were there acrobats in tight-fitted costumes talking to the police officers?

Why were clowns seated around the station and asked whether or not they wanted anything to drink?

Why in the world were there women dressed in skivvy outfits with giant eagle feathers talking quietly in the corner.

Was that a clown and an acrobat inside a holding cell?

 _Oh my god,_ I thought. _There is a_ _ **ringmaster**_ _standing in the middle of the floor._

I glanced around quickly, looking for lions. I didn't see any, but it didn't make me feel any better off.

I slowly made my way on the outer ring of the trivial company, my eyes growing wider and wider as I took in the entire situation…. whatever situation that _was_. I strode into the hallway, not being stopped by anyone as everyone in the GCPD seemed to recognize me quite easily. I'd visited enough times, I didn't even need an introduction.

I stopped in front of the door that read 'Forensics', and tapped the translucent window twice.

"Enter!"

I opened the door, seeing Edward Nygma. He was peering into a microscope, observing whatever sample of an amoeba. When I didn't speak, he glanced up to see who it was and he smiled when he saw that it was me.

"Miss Gordon!" Nygma greeted happily. "How are you?"

"Peachy, as always. Um, what's going on out there?" I asked, pointing out to the middle ground. "Is the circus in town?"

"Yes," Nygma answered seriously. "And what is also abundant in Gotham?"

"Is this another riddle?"

"Not exactly, but I'll give you two clues," said Nygma, withdrawing from the microscope and turning in his chair to face me. "There is a _lot_ of it to go around, and we hear it every day."

"Murder?" I guessed.

Nygma's face fell just a bit and he nervously chuckled, "Well, _I_ was going to say humor…. like jokes…. but I suppose 'murder' fits that category as well. You're right. It's not a riddle."

"I'm glad to hear that," I replied, clasping my hands together. "You've told me better ones in the past."

"Would you like to hear one?"

"Fire away, Edward," I said, gesturing to him.

"What is black and white, and red all over?" Nygma asked smoothly. "It's an easy one."

I stared at him saying, "Dead interracial couple?"

Nygma blinked, cleared his throat and said, "Well….no…. it's a newspaper, but again, I suppose that's a fair answer."

"Sorry. My humor has gotten darker since we last spoke." I apologized. "How's the thing with Kristin?"

"'Thing?'"

"Did you ask her to dinner yet?" I clarified.

Nygma shied away, and turned back to peer into his microscope, grumbling, "I haven't."

"Is she still with Flass?"

"No. That gorilla's still waiting to see prison—hopefully soon," Nygma said darkly.

"So, she has another boyfriend?" I asked unhappily.

"No. I've just been preoccupied—I was suspended earlier, you know."

I took a seat on a stool beside him.

"First I'm hearing of it," I noted.

"Doesn't matter now," Nygma explained, smiling in spite of himself. "The M.E. was fired. He was collecting and hiding human parts in his locker."

I stared at him in disbelief saying, "Hiding body parts, huh?"

"Yes, indeed," Nygma said gleefully. "And he was fired."

"Who took his place?"

"A doctor who'd been working at Arkham," replied Nygma. "She and Detective Gordon are together. She smells nice."

He peered back into his microscope, twisting the dial to and for as though to get a clearer resolution of the specimen swimming on the transparent tab.

"Wait," I said, holding my hand out. "Thompkins? Dr. Thompkins is the new Medical Examiner?"

"Yes, have you met her yet?" Nygma asked without looking at me. "That's what I needed. There you are, you little stinker."

"Pardon?"

Nygma said apologetically, "Sorry, not you—the thing…" He pointed to the microscope. "I have to get this thing calibrated again. It takes _forever_ to focus in."

"You're a simple man, aren't you, Edward?"

"Very," he agreed, smiling sweetly at me.

"Have you met this Thompkins?"

"I have. She's nice." Nygma said pointedly. "She lets me use the lab, nowhere near as ignorant as the other one." He leaned to the side adding, "No need to worry, Miss Gordon."

"Worried? Why would I be worried?"

"You're thinking of meeting her, right?" Nygma assumed logically. "You're the sibling, the sister, the opposite gender. If I am not mistaken, you want to meet the doctor yourself and ensure that she is worthy of dating your sibling counterpart."

I stared at him.

He smirked saying, "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Well, you're not wrong," I sighed, getting off the stool. "Always a pleasure talking to you, Edward. Do you think the circus has dispersed?"

"I wouldn't doubt it," Nygma said innocently. "Regarding the Thompkins-and-your-Brother issue, I can offer a suggestion."

I started towards the door.

Hearing him, I turned on my heel: "And what is your suggestion?"

"Give her a chance," Nygma offered. "She seems like a nice woman. She might be good for your brother."

"Thank you. I'll take it under advisement." I responded politely. "Regarding Kristin, I would try to ask her to dinner. She may just be waiting for _you_ to do it."

Nygma turned his attention to his microscope and I heard him mutter, " _Darn it_."

I snickered and walked down the hall to see that most of the circus people had walked out of the GCPD. Whether they were going home or spending the night in Gotham, I doubted any of them were going to be liable to leave. I looked up and saw Jim standing on the balcony; sitting against his desk was a dark-haired woman, wearing a green dress.

 _Well, better time than any._

I climbed the stairs and passed Harvey on the way. He stopped me, taking my arm gingerly.

"Hey, Sylvia," said Harvey, smiling. "How you been?"

"Peachy—as usual," I answered coolly. "You?"

"Not bad, not bad. You going up there to interrogate the doctor?" Harvey asked, grinning.

"Maybe," I joked.

"Can I watch?"

"You're terrible, Harvey," I chastised. I glanced downwind to see the acrobat and clown arguing it out in the cell. "What's going on down there?"

"Clown and acrobat are suspects," said Harvey seriously. "Possible murder—I know, it's been one hell of a night."

"Was it a local?"

"No, that's the _fun_ part. A circus freak murdered another circus freak," said Harvey humorously.

"Only in Gotham is that funny. You'd think that would scare some people when people are murdering their own," I said, rolling my eyes. "Any leads—other than those two?"

"If I had any, I couldn't tell you."

"If you had any, you _would._ " I said knowingly, poking him in the chest.

Harvey smiled guiltily, saying, "You know me too well. Now see, _that_ is scary." He patted my shoulder, adding, "I'll see you. Maybe I'll buy you a drink later. I can do that, right? I hear you're getting serious—congratulations on the engagement, I guess."

"Thank you for the congrats, even though I know you don't mean it."

"No, I'm serious," he insisted. "If that little man makes you happy, who am I to stand in the way of love?"

He laughed when I gave him a stern look and then he continued on his way. I continued to climb the stairs and I stood at the pinnacle, watching Jim and this new Medical Examiner talk in hushed tones. Jim saw me over her shoulder; when his eyes shifted, the woman turned suddenly, seeing me.

She beamed saying, "Who is this?"

"Lee," Jim said, sounding suddenly business-like, "This is my sister, Sylvia Gordon. Sylvia, this is Lee."

Lee held out her hand and I shook it firmly.

"I didn't know you had a sister," Lee said mischievously, grinning sideways at Jim.

"Shocker," I responded sarcastically, looking at him. "It's like the skeletons just fall right out of your closet, don't they, Jimmy?"

Jim let out a nervous laugh then he glared at me as Lee approached and gave me a quick once-over.

"I can see the resemblance," said Lee. "You two have the same eyes."

"Well, mine are more open," Jim pointed out.

"Now whether they actually see what's right in front of them is something entirely different," I told Lee sardonically.

Lee glanced between Jim and myself. She seemed smart enough to know there was tension between us, especially when there never used to be. The woman then turned to me completely and smiled politely.

"Is this the moment when you and I have a heart-to-heart conversation about how I should treat him?" Lee asked sincerely. "I just want you to know that I like him a lot and I wouldn't do anything to hurt him…."

"Actually," I interrupted her civilly, "I just wanted to meet the new Medical Examiner. Edward said you replaced the other one."

"Yes," said Lee, smiling. "It's my first week here."

"Well, welcome to Gotham," I greeted. "I hope you like the work. It'll keep you busy."

"Of course, by _no_ fault of your own," Jim grumbled.

"What was that?" I called him out.

"I said 'you should probably go home,'" Jim emphasized with a weird smile. "It's getting late, after all."

I rolled my eyes and took Lee's hands in mine.

"It's really nice to meet you, Dr. Thompkins," I said sincerely. "Let me know if you'd like to grab lunch or something. My fiancé and I have been to a few restaurants that I would highly recommend. One of them is completely French-themed."

"Oh, that's a good idea! Isn't it, Jim?" Lee said happily, smiling at my brother.

"Grand," Jim said halfheartedly.

"You said you're engaged?" Lee asked, her eyes sparkled with the knowledge. "When's the wedding?"

"Don't know yet," I admitted. "We're waiting for when everything is perfect."

"Let us know when you set a date," Lee gushed. "I _love_ weddings."

Behind her, Jim was mimicking the both of us and making odd faces.

"Will do," I promised. "But if would excuse me, I have a few potential people to interview, and a few errands to run. It's great meeting you."

"And you as well!"

"Bye Jim!" I called over my shoulder.

"See you later!"

I strolled down the stairs and I heard Lee poking fun at him saying, "Why didn't you _tell_ me you had a sister! She's such a peach!"

"She used to be," Jim said just loud enough that I could hear.

I glanced upwards at the balcony to see him watching me. I waved at him before I left the GCPD.


	12. Tomato Soup

Chapter Twelve: Tomato Soup

A/N: I love these moments when I get to write Sylvia's dark side. Brings out the evil in me! :D

* * *

I entered my apartment around nine o'clock at night, turned on the lights, and when I strode into the kitchen I was met with an interesting sight. Tied to two of my kitchen chairs was a man and a woman, all alone and unfamiliar. Their mouths were covered with duct tape.

I stood in front of them. The word 'curiosity' didn't begin to cover the feeling.

The woman wore a black, long-sleeved shirt and a slate-gray leather, knee-length skirt with black fish-net stockings. Her open-toed, ruby high heels were placed neatly beside her; her ankles were separately duct-taped to the legs of the chair. She was blonde, green-eyed, and her hair was a matted mess. As I approached her, the woman's eyes grew large as saucers and she struggled against her bonds; her wrists were tied behind the back of the chair.

Her male counterpart looked to be in the same boat—wrist and ankle restraints were the same, and like her shoes, his had been neatly placed to the side. Shiny shoes, even. He matched the lady in color scheme: gray and black apparel. The man had a set of vengeful, dark blue eyes; he snarled at me when I first came inside the door.

"What in god's name is going on here?" I asked the two of them, not really expecting an answer.

But they certainly made the effort of trying to explain themselves.

"Mmffmh!" The woman cried.

"Mmmm! Mhhfffmm!" The man growled.

I let out a chuckle: "Well, I'm glad we finally got that cleared up."

Soft padded footsteps came from the hallway; a pair of hands extended towards me. I saw that it was Tomas; he strode into the kitchen with jeans and a white T-shirt; he was barefoot.

I said sternly, "Do you mind telling me why these people are in my apartment?"

Tomas nodded, gesturing me to come further into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter as he stood in between the two occupants, placing a sturdy hand on a shoulder each.

"You asked me to find out if there was anyone actively trying to go against the new owner," Tomas recalled calmly. "I give you these two as a result."

I looked at the two in a new light.

"Are they part of the staff?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Yes, Ma'am. This is Burke," said Tomas, gesticulating to the male. "His name is Burke Drifas. He was recently hired as one of the waiting staff. He—Hold on, let me get out my notes, I have a terrible memory when it comes to numbers." (He walked ten paces into the living room, pushed his shot gun aside so he could pick up a notepad that had been lying on the coffee table and then he hustled back.) "Burke lives on 10th on West Avenue, just outside of Gotham. He has three children, and an ex-wife, to which he referred as a 'fugly whore'."

Tomas shook his head with a laugh, clapping the man on the back saying, "That's not nice, man. You need to respect your exes—they gave you the time of day, didn't they?"

"Three children and an ex—go on," I noted.

Burke continued: "When I talked to him, he said that he doesn't think Penguin is in charge. He quoted, 'The little creep is Falcone's lap dog, and nothing more'." Tomas smirked, adding, "He's a bit of a creep himself, ain't he, boss?"

Burke tried his best to look around, to see my expression, but as I was behind him, he couldn't make heads or tails about my disposition. Patiently, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon of orange juice, and asked if Tomas wanted anything.

"You know how to make a Fuzzy Navel?" Tomas asked conversationally.

"Coming right up," I answered his question.

I took out the ingredients to make his drink and then I made one for myself. I placed his on the kitchen table.

"Thanks, boss," said Tomas, smiling widely. "Now…. when I told Mr. Burke here that by contesting Penguin, he would be going against Falcone, he said 'I don't give a shit'." He said to the man in question, holding his notepad out for the latter to see: "Those are your words, man. Not mine. I can't make this shit up."

Burke growled, saying some nasty muffled things to him.

"Burke," Tomas continued, "is a liability. He's been working as a waiter but I say that once everything started running and things are nice and calm again, he'd try to do something. Give Maroni some secrets, maybe?"

At the suggestion, Burke shook his head vigorously.

I strode into the living room and pulled off my leather jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. Tomas flipped a few pages, assuming I was still listening (and I was), and continued telling me more about Burke. The man alone was a common denominator who despised Penguin just to despise him, because he wasn't Fish Mooney. I slipped off my heels in the living room.

"He's also told me," Tomas continued dully, "that if given the chance, he would—and I quote— 'Take Penguin out so _I_ could take over, anyone is better than the freak'. Dude…."—Tomas bent over and held Burke's shoulder like he was a pal— "You can't talk about Penguin that way; that's her _boyfriend_ , man. I mean, technically, he's her boss, but they're a thing, guy. So that's like a big double whammy for you, ain't it?"

Burke slowly looked at me, eyes wide in fear.

"I'm going to take a shower," I told Tomas, gesturing to the bathroom. "I'll be out in a jiffy. Do you mind heating up some of the left overs?"

"Sure—the steak casserole or the tomato soup?"

"Soup, please," I said sweetly.

"No problem, Boss."

I stepped into the shower and was only in for a few minutes, just enough to wash the dirt and grime of the day. I towel dried my hair and pulled it into a pony tail, slipped on a silk robe and tied it off. When I came out of the bathroom, I saw Tomas sitting on the table in front of the two contenders, reading over his notes.

In a pot, the left-over tomato soup from a couple nights ago was heating up. Seeing me, he handed me my drink and I thanked him once more. I gently rested my hand on Burke's shoulder; he eyed me suspiciously.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mr. Drifas." I greeted sweetly. "Continue, Tomas."

"Well, that's all there was about him," said Tomas apologetically. "He refused to talk after I hit him over the head."

"Typical," I said, shrugging. "What about the girl?"

The woman's eyes widened once more when the attention was directed at her.

"Yes, Ma'am," Tomas said with a wide grin. "This is Tiffany Rudderdale. She doesn't work for you."

I looked at him: "Why is she here then?"

"Because she's going to be the _new_ Mrs. Drifas," Tom explained, smiling devilishly.

"Doesn't mean she's a rival," I said coolly.

"Sure," said Tomas lazily. "She didn't _say_ she agreed with him, but she didn't _deny_ it either. With all due respect, ma'am, that's just as bad."

I traced the rim of my drinking glass with my finger: "Mm. You have a point, Tom."

"HmmmffmM!" Tiffany squeaked.

I tilted my head to the side at her then glanced at my guard: "Did you understand that?"

"Not a damn word," Tomas snickered.

Her mascara started rolling down her cheeks as she said again more desperately, "Hmmffffffmm hrmmmfmmm!"

I sat on the table beside Tomas and gestured for him to do what needed to be done. Tomas ripped the tape off her mouth and knelt in front of her; she was panting immediately, jaw trembling.

"I don't know what you want," Tiffany squeaked. "But if it's money—"

"I'm not interested in your money," I said calmly. "And you couldn't afford the price even if I was."

"Miss Gordon, I assure you—"

Tomas slapped the tape right back on her mouth, craning his head at me.

"Do we really have to hear them talk?" Tomas asked, dreading the outcome. "I mean, do you _really_ care to hear it?"

"I've got all night," I consented. "We might as well."

"Fuck me…. okay, you bitch," Tomas grumbled. "You better make these words count. She's gonna let you talk, okay? But you're not going to scream or cry or moan. Got it?"

Tiffany nodded furiously. I was impressed with Tomas so far. He seemed so calm and professionally stricken by violence that I would have never guessed he would be up for this kind of fun. I downed my drink as Tomas ripped the tape off her mouth again.

"I don't know what you want…. tell me what you want," Tiffany whispered, glancing at her fiancé then to me again. "What did we do?"

"You must be deaf," Tomas snapped. "I just sat here and listed all the things that you've done wrong!"

"Him!" Tiffany cried, glaring at Burke. " _He_ said those things, not **me**!"

"Do you agree with him?" I questioned gently. "Do you think he's right?"

"I…." Tiffany looked at her husband who was sending all the signals of 'agree with me, please!' but she bit her lower lip. "I…. I don't…."

"Tomas," I said softly.

My guard straightened from his squatted position and turned to me expectantly.

"Would you mind taking Ms. Rudderdale to my room? Untie her, give her one of my robes from the closet, and a bottled water," I instructed. "When you've untied her, please lock the door and rejoin Mr. Drifas and myself back in the kitchen."

"Why?" Tomas asked incredulously. "She's just as guilty—"

"No, she's not." I said, looking at Tiffany.

Tiffany looked at me as though I had grown three heads: shocked, confused, and a little terrified.

Tomas leaned into me, whispering in my ear: "Why are you doing this?"

"She's been strong-armed into this mess," I hissed curtly. "She _wants_ to tell the truth but she's afraid of **him** " (I gestured to the man).

"How can you tell?" Tomas asked.

"I know a battered woman when I see one," I said sympathetically. "Personal experience."

Tomas' expression changed from its stern placement and softened when he heard the last part. He looked at me, confused, but then understood. He nodded dutifully, grabbed both sides of the kitchen chair and proceeded to drag Tiffany out of the kitchen; the woman, although terrified, didn't scream so that was a good sign. When she was out of range and I heard the door close, I turned to look at Burke.

"And then there were two," I sighed deeply.

"Hmph."

"My sentiments exactly," I mused, smirking at him. "If I let you talk, Mr. Drifas, you have to promise not to scream. I have yet to make any rude remarks to you so I would hope that you would show me the same courtesy. Does that sound fair?"

He glared at me.

"Nod your head if that's fair," I instructed.

He nodded once.

"Good."

I leaned forward and slowly took the tape off his face. He was glaring daggers and he appeared to be biting off his tongue _not_ to say something terrible. I leaned my backside against the table, crossing my arms over my chest. I caught the way he was looking me over; his attention lingered especially over the hem of my robe which cut off just above my knees.

"You're wondering why you're here," I said calmly. "Would that be correct?"

"Sure," he grumbled. "What I am _really_ wondering—"

"Remember. We're being nice." I interrupted cautiously.

"This is nice?"

"Well, you're not being tortured," I humorously pointed out. "At best, you've been hit across the head."

"Thanks for that."

"Tomas likes Penguin," I explained. "You insulted his boss. He hit you on the head. I'd call it even."

"You weren't there."

"True, but I doubt I need to know your side of the story to determine that." I replied honestly. "What about your girl?"

"What about her?"

"Does she want Penguin dead too?" I asked.

"Yeah—"

"She didn't say she did."

"Well, she's a fucking liar."

I said smoothly, "She didn't say she wanted him alive either."

"What the fuck does it matter, lady! She agrees with me; she **wants** him dead too! She ain't telling you anything because she's just scared!"

"Well, we can both agree to that—I'm not blind!" I said heatedly as I advanced towards him. "But I don't think she's scared of _me_ , Mr. Drifas. I think she's afraid of _you_."

He frowned at me.

"You raise your voice to me," I reprimanded, "Then I will raise my voice to you. You want to act tough, I can handle tough. You're not making it easy on yourself, buddy. So how about you start showing some **fucking** respect!"

He continued to frown. Then he asked icily, "Why the hell am I here?"

"So, you _do_ want to know that. Well," I held up my hands, "that's easy enough. You're here, Mr. Drifas, because I asked my guard—you met Tomas already—to do a few things for me. I asked him to look into all the hired staff and to notify me of anyone who is still loyal to Fish Mooney."

"So, I'm here because I liked the woman. You plan on attacking anyone who likes her, who is loyal to her?"

I shrugged carelessly, "I don't give a shit who _they_ are loyal to, Burke. That's not why _you_ are here. You told Tomas that you would take Penguin out if you had the chance—"

"—Everyone who is anyone would do anything like that," Burke argued. "Maroni says stuff like that but you don't have _him_ tied up, do you?"

"Maroni is a whole different issue. The fact of the matter is that you, Mr. Drifas, actually **work** for Penguin," I pointed out. "That puts you in a situation where you can get close to him and then when you find whatever you're looking for, you can give the information to the highest bidder."

"You would know," Burke grumbled. "You're working for the boss. You're dating the snitch. He put you up to this, I bet."

"True on all counts except the last," I admitted. "He doesn't know you're here."

"He fucking snitched on Fish Mooney. You used to _work_ for her!"

"Also, true," I voiced coolly. "I did used to work for her. I bet it just burns you inside and out, huh? You want revenge, don't you, Burke? That's why you took the job. You knew you'd end up working for Penguin. What was the plan, Burke, huh?"

"Go to hell, you crazy broad."

"There isn't any need to insult me. Remember what I said? We were having a polite discussion? 'Polite' is the operative word, here."

Burke glared at me. Padded footsteps came down the hallway.

Without taking my eyes off Burke, I addressed Tomas, "How is she?"

"She's fine. Scared is all. But fine."

"Did you lock the door?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"What about windows?"

"Yes, Ma'am. But there's probably no need for that," said Tomas, shrugging as he sat in one of the empty dining chairs. "I doubt she'll escape."

Burke and I glanced at one another suspiciously.

"Why is that?" I asked.

"She didn't resist when I untied her." Tomas said. "And she seems appreciative."

"I wonder why _that_ is." I commented pointedly, looking back at the fiancé.

"Don't give me that crap," Burke sneered. "She's just biding her time so she can get away from _you_. She'll play innocent. When you're complacent, she'll escape. She'll get out, and she'll call the police. You'll be locked away in prison…."

" _Jeez_ ," Tomas scowled. "You talk too much."

"I know, right?" I agreed.

Burke stopped talking for a moment, his mouth contorting into odd shapes before he seemed to pop his fuse.

"You know what," Burke seethed. "You're _right._ I don't like Penguin. He's a freak. He's a no body. He's running the whole place down, ruining **everything**!"

Tomas glanced at me nervously.

I stood next to the stove where the tomato soup was boiling.

"I **wanted** to kill him," Burke continued hatefully. "I want him _dead!_ You think I care if you hurt the whore in the other room? I'm not scared of you at all! I'm not scared! You think you can fucking scare me! A bitch like you! HA! YOU HAVEN'T SEEN WHAT SCARED LOOKS LIKE!"

He was screaming his head off as I looked at Tomas and said gingerly, "Do you care to fetch a few towels for me from the bathroom?"

"Sure," Tomas said wearily. He left to do as I asked.

Burke shot fire from his eyes: "You are a worthless bitch! You're a worthless, steaming pile of fucking shit! And you know what! You know what? I would say the same shit to Penguin—I'm not lying down for someone so fucking—"

Tomas was on his way back when he punched Burke square in the jaw.

"Tomas!" I chided.

"What!" Tomas snapped. "He's insulting you!"

" **Let him** ," I ordered. "When you've finished placing the towels down, would you kindly tape his mouth shut. But _do not_ hit him."

"With pleasure!" Tomas exclaimed with zeal.

He took a long piece and purposely punched the tape onto his face. Burke groaned in pain as his nose began to bleed.

I scowled.

" _What_?" Tomas said innocently. "I had to make sure it stayed on!"

Tomas and I both glanced at the front door when it opened. Oswald and Gabe entered the apartment, both of them were in the middle of the discussion before they both turned to see Tomas and me standing in the kitchen with a fuming Burke tied in the chair. Gabe shut the door quickly, locking it.

"Sylvia," Oswald began slowly. "What is going on?"

Gabe pointed at Burke, "Hey! He's one of our waiters!"

"Sylvia?" Oswald repeated.

I twisted the dial on the stove to the highest level, and stirred the soup with a wooden spoon.

"Do you want any left overs?" I asked.

"No thanks," Gabe politely declined. "I had pizza for dinner."

Oswald rounded the table, observing the state Burke was in, and the towels that circled the chair.

"This is Burke Drifas," I said, tapping the man's shoulder. "As Gabe pointed out, he is, indeed, one of the waiters at your club."

"Why is he here? And why is he tied to a chair?" Oswald questioned, noticing the ropes binding the man's hands and the tape around his ankles.

"That's my doing," Tomas chimed in.

"That's a nice tape job," Gabe complimented.

"Thanks!" Tomas said, grinning.

Oswald interrupted their exchange of nice words, saying, "Again— _Why_ is this man tied to a chair in the middle of the kitchen!"

Tomas said pointedly, "Well, we couldn't interrogate the guy at his house—that would be weird."

Gabe chimed in, "Why does he look like he wants to kill you, Miss G?"

Tomas answered swiftly, "He's just upset because his entire plan is going to hell. Guess the 'freak' knows now, huh, Drifas!"

"Tomas!" I scolded.

"Ma'am, _Burke_ said it—not me," said Tomas, glancing arbitrarily at Burke, Gabe, Oswald, then at me. "I figure if you're going to tell him everything, let's tell him _everything_ the guy told us."

"I think this guy might piss himself before that happens," Gabe muttered, watching Burke's eyes dart to everyone in the kitchen.

"WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE _HELL_ IS GOING ON!" Oswald shouted.

Tomas and Gabe jumped, looking at me expectantly.

"I can," I said gently.

"Then, _by all means_!" Oswald said irritably, gesturing to me.

I explained calmly: "I told Tomas to look into the background of all the people who are gainfully employed, and to give me the names of all those who were actively seeking retribution for Mooney's banishment. Tomas found Mr. Drifas as well as his wife-to-be, Tiffany Rubberdale, and brought them to me."

"Where is—" Gabe began.

"Ms. Rubberdale is sitting in our bedroom—she has neither confirmed nor denied whether Mr. Drifas' intentions were legitimate."

Tomas added, "She also seemed a little hesitant to talk in front of this guy."

"Because of that," I said, nodding my head to Tomas, "I allowed her to sit in a different room. She's clearly afraid of Mr. Drifas." (I glared at the latter.) "So far he has tried to implicate her in his death threats. And, Oswald, before you came in, he confessed to having wanted you dead. He is tied to this chair in the kitchen because that was how Tomas presented him to me. Now that I have learned that he was hell-bent on killing you, I have every intention of torturing him."

Burke glared at Oswald who stoically observed him. When I had finished, Oswald's temper seemed extinguished.

"My, you have been busy," Oswald exhaled with surprise.

Burke glanced between us.

"What do you want me to do to him?" Tomas asked me.

"Nothing yet," I answered.

I stripped the tape off Burke's mouth and he cried out in pain.

"Anything else of importance you'd like to add?" I asked softly.

"Yeah," Burke seethed. "Fuck you—and fuck Penguin!"

"Hmm." I drawled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

I grabbed the boiling pot of tomato soup and dumped it over Burke's head. He screamed bloody murder as the broth seared and cooked his flesh. The skin of his face and hands started bubbling, he was crying out for mercy. The tomato soup drizzled from his body, to the chair and onto the towels.

Oswald, Gabe, and Tomas appeared shocked.

I pulled the kitchen towel off the rack, rolled into a ball and shoved it into Burke's mouth to muffle the screams of agony.

"His screaming was giving me a fucking headache," I noted when Tomas and Gabe looked at me quizzically.

"So _that's_ why you made me put on the soup," Tomas chuckled darkly. "And lay out the towels. You had this planned from the beginning!"

I nodded.

"He threatened to kill the love of my life. It seemed to be the only logical thing to do," I uttered.

"What about the wife?" Gabe asked, peering down the hallway. "What do you want us to do with her?"

"Nothing. I'll deal with her." I told him.

Burke was shivering and shaking from the heat. I left him there in the chair and started towards the bedroom. I heard Oswald tell Gabe, "Do you mind taking care of this?" And Gabe silently agreed to do whatever Oswald was referring to.

I opened the bedroom door, and I saw Tiffany sitting up, wearing my robe. She looked at me fearfully.

"Your fiancé is going to die tonight," I told her passively. "If not from a bullet, he'll die from third degree burns. Now that he is out of the picture, out of the way, and away from you, I am only going to ask this one time. Please do not make me ask it again."

She nodded shakily.

"Were you aware of Burke's intentions?" I asked. "Be honest."

She fearfully nodded.

"Do you agree with him?"

Tiffany stammered, "N-no. He made me go along with it. He wanted me to agree but…."

"Are you telling me this so that I may spare your life?"

"No, ma'am. Not at all."

I sat on the bed beside her, staring into her eyes.

"How can I be certain of that?" I asked quietly.

Tiffany pulled the sleeves up her arms where underneath were bruises.

She said bitterly, "He did this to me…. a couple of days ago. And he…. he and I…at night—he would insist, but I wouldn't want to. But he would anyway."

"He raped you?" I whispered.

She started crying. That was all I needed.

"You're free to go," I told her.

She whispered her thanks. Tiffany opened the bedroom door, but she turned around with her hand still on the door knob: "Miss, I have something else to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"He was the only one in the family—his family—drawing income. I don't have a job. I'll need one."

I said humorously, " _You_ want to come work for Penguin?"

"If it means working for you, yeah," Tiffany said, nodding.

"I'll see what I can do. Come by the club tomorrow, and Ms. Rubberdale…"

She met my eyes.

"Don't go falling for his type ever again." I said sternly.

She stepped over the threshold.

"Tiffany's leaving!" I called out through the apartment. "Let her pass!"

I heard the front door open and then close. I rubbed my face with my hands, feeling more than spent. I looked up and saw Oswald standing in the doorway, leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed.

"You're emotionally invested in this one, aren't you?" Oswald said knowingly.

"You have no idea."

"What do you want to do with Mr. Drifas?"

I looked at him imploringly, getting to my feet.

"I don't know yet."

"You haven't anything planned?"

I stood in front of Oswald, muttering, "Nothing easy. I want him to suffer."

"Why so vindictive?" he asked gently.

I answered resentfully, "He raped his own fiancée."

Oswald stepped to the side to let me by, his eyes following me.

Standing in the kitchen, I looked at the burnt figure sitting in the chair; he was crying, begging to die. I tilted my head, thinking of what I wanted to do with him. Tomas and Gabe glanced at each other, small menacing smiles tugging at their mouths.

"Tomas," I addressed. "How many sisters do you have?"

"One," he answered.

"Is she married?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"What would you do if you found out that your sister's husband has been raping her every single night?"

Tomas' right eye and jaw twitched.

He replied dangerously, "I would chop off his hands and feet, and throw the rest of him off the pier so I could watch him drown."

I smiled and said, "Do that with Mr. Drifas, here."

Happily, Tomas responded, "Yes, Ma'am. Gabe? You want to come along?"

"Sure!" Gabe said enthusiastically. "This should be fun!"

"This will be easy," Tomas stated, emitting a sinister chuckle: "I was hoping it would come to this. I parked out back _just_ for the occasion."

"Need help lifting the chair?"

"Are you kidding," Tomas laughed. "This guy weighs as much as my big toe."

They dragged Burke out the front door. I closed it after them, turning to Oswald. He slowly approached me.

"I'm sorry. That's not what you probably wanted to see after working at—mmm!"

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulled me to him, and shoved his mouth against mine. His tongued pressed down on my bottom lip, to the center, sliding in to find my own. The kiss had taken me by surprise, but settling into it, I rubbed my hands down his chest. When the two of us needed to breathe, we broke the kiss naturally and I blinked at him.

"You're not mad?"

"' _Mad_ '? Why would I be mad? You not only eliminated a pest but what possibly could have been several more problems that would have arisen," Oswald said enthusiastically. "It's just…. well, when I gave you the job as my team leader, I didn't realize you would be so into your work."

I placed the pot in the sink, and ran the water.

"I have an idea," Oswald said thoughtfully. "When I am not present, you'll be my second-in-command."

I teased, "I thought I was just going to be the team leader."

"Don't be modest, Pidge. We both know you're more than that."

"Ah shucks," I joked, beaming at him.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were planning?" Oswald asked.

"Well, you were happy to be given the club. I wanted you to enjoy that moment without worry. Speaking of worry, dinner shouldn't be a problem. We _do_ have leftovers," I suggested. "There's the steak casserole from the other day. I'd offer tomato soup, but—well you know."

Oswald chuckled, and I grinned broadly at him.

"Steak casserole sounds perfect."


	13. I Try To Hurt Butch

Chapter Thirteen: I Try To Hurt Butch

A/N: See the end of chapter for dedication note.

* * *

As I had promised, I met with Ms. Rubberdale the following day. After torturing her fiancé, I was surprised to see that she had actually shown up, if only just a few minutes ago. From the bar, I observed the scene, crossing one leg over the other; the bottom of my heel clicked the leg of the stool.

One of my waiters, Henry, was showing her the way; he offered her something to drink, but she swiftly declined. Like me, she wore a knee-length skirt; mine was white, and hers was gray… again. She seemed to like the color enough. The same waiter that serviced her approached me with his tray, placed vertically against his hip.

"Ms. Rubberdale, here to see you, Ma'am," Henry announced briskly.

Henry was dressed in the same flamboyant costume as the other waiters and the bartenders. He was younger than the rest of them, maybe even younger than my own guard. He had thick, black eyebrows and his dark hair was combed back with gel. Out of all the constituents of this bar, Henry was the most interesting—as young as he was, he didn't mind the rough characters that rolled up inside the workplace, or the violence that occurred every now and then.

He was all right in my book.

"Thank you," I said, smiling. "I'm guessing she didn't want anything to drink?"

"Nah," Henry answered. "Seems like she only wants to talk to you."

"You sound disappointed," I cared to note.

Mischievously, Henry replied, "Something like that."

He gazed at the woman over his shoulder, then turned to look at me.

"How old are you, son?" I asked curiously.

"I'm twenty-one…. a couple days ago, officially." Henry answered, smirking. "I can show you my ID if you don't believe me."

"I believe you. And I don't care about that. Do you like older women, Henry?"

Henry didn't appear abashed by the direction of the conversation. In fact, he raised his head a little higher. He placed the tray gingerly on the bar counter, leaned against it, and smiled secretively.

"What if I do?" Henry asked.

"No shame in it," I pointed out. "I'm just curious."

"You like embarrassing people, don't you? Playing with them." Henry asked, his voice deepening.

"You don't approve?"

"Oh, I _absolutely_ approve," Henry reassured, then arrogantly, he asked, "So why are you suddenly into my love life, Miss Gordon? Did you see something you like? Something tickle your fancy?"

I scoffed, "Don't flatter yourself, kid."

I uncrossed my leg and hopped off the stool.

"That woman there," I said, pointing to Ms. Rubberdale. "She has—sorry, _had—_ a fiancé used her and neglected her like his own spoils. The reason I am telling you this is that I doubt you can handle that much baggage at your age." I clapped him on the shoulder, adding, "And a little piece of friendly advice, something to take with you the next time you try to hit on your boss' wife?"

His face paled.

I said sweetly, "Never assume that just because a woman talks about your love life that she automatically wants to have sex with you. It makes you come off as extremely arrogant, and that's off-putting."

Henry said quietly, "I thought women liked confidence."

"Oh, they do. Confidence is one thing; arrogance is another."

Henry scowled: "But they're the same."

I put my arm around him.

"Arrogance, Henry, is knowing who you are and knocking down every Harry, Dick, and Moe that comes your way because you've got something to prove. Confidence is when you walk into a room, and you don't have to compare yourself to anyone else." I explained lightly. I patted his shoulder: "If I were you, I would skip the widow and try talking to the pianist on stage."

Henry followed my direction to the stage where a woman around my age was sitting at a grand piano, warming up with the old classic, _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_. Henry glanced at me hesitantly; I winked at him, and he quickly took the tray and started towards the stage to offer the woman a glass of ice tea.

I observed the stage for a moment then surveyed the rest of the club, seeing Oswald speak to one of the guests. I supposed that after all of the stuff that went down with Mooney, Oswald was rebuilding the network—whether that was his idea or Falcone's, I hadn't the foggiest.

"You can just do it all, can't you?"

 _I recognize that voice._

And sure, as shit, I did. Butch Gilzean stood in front of me, smiling plainly. I lifted my skirt just enough so I could reach under and grab the switch blade that had been strapped against inner thigh; just as quickly, I pressed the button; the blade shot out, and I advanced towards him.

"Whoa, whoa!" Butch began. "Sylvia, I—"

Oswald's attention had been pulled from the guests to my direction as Butch inched away, nearly stumbling back against the stool. I held the knife up to stab him, but Oswald caught my wrist.

"Sylvia, it's okay." He reassured.

" _Okay_?" I exclaimed incredulously. "It's Gilzean. He's loyal to Mooney" (I turned on Butch, glaring) "I don't trust you within three feet of me, or this place."

"I'm not working for her anymore!" Butch said, holding his hands up in front of him.

"The hell you aren't!" I snapped and I pulled my wrist out of Oswald's grip and tried to have another go at him. "I'll save us a lot of trouble and kill you myself!"

"Tell her, Penguin!"

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed the switchblade from me completely, clicking the blade into place. I turned to my fiancé.

"Tell me _what_?" I questioned.

"He doesn't work for Mooney anymore, he's right," Oswald said, gesturing to Butch, who looked five times more relieved now that I didn't have a knife. "Falcone didn't want to get rid of him so Victor Zsasz worked on him. He does what I say now."

"Does he, now?" I challenged. I glanced at Butch, who was straightening his tie, then I looked at Oswald again. "When were you thinking of telling me this? After I killed him?"

"I'm nearly twice your height and I weigh more than you," Butch declared.

I shot him a death glare and Oswald said, "Not now, Butch. Sylvia, look at me."

I did as he asked with much reluctance (I didn't like my back facing the gorilla any more than I wanted him here in the same vicinity).

"I was going to tell you," Oswald said gently. "Due to the events of last night, it slipped my mind. So, I am telling you _now_. Butch Gilzean works for _me_."

"You trust him?"

"I'm still debating that myself," Oswald admitted, glancing over my shoulder at Butch.

"Can I just stab him?" I implored.

"No."

"Just a little?"

" _No_ ," Oswald said firmly.

I glared at Butch who watched Oswald and me talk as if it was some magic show; he just couldn't figure it out.

"Fine," I surrendered. "But if he so much as insults me, I'm taking out an eye."

"Fair enough."

I moved past him and sat in front of Tiffany Rubberdale who seemed to have been observing the argument with a fair amount of interest and anxiety. I clasped my hands together on the table and smiled pointedly.

"Still want a job?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'll be honest with you, Ms. Rubberdale—"

"Tiffany," she insisted, smiling. "Please."

I spoke genuinely: "I'll be honest with you, Tiffany, if you are not one-hundred percent certain that you want to be here, you need to tell me. There are plenty of rough characters here, people who like to prey on vulnerability. They're like vultures—they'll go after it the moment they smell insecurity. And, right now, you're the poster girl for it."

Tiffany nodded slowly as I spoke.

"What would I have to do?" Tiffany asked softly.

"For one, you'll need to find your big girl voice," I pointed out. "Second, I'll probably make you a waitress."

"I'm better at mixing drinks than waiting tables."

"Yes, but if someone makes you uncomfortable, you can't leave the bar," I reminded calmly. "You'll have to deal with them in a calm, remote manner. No crying, no whining, that sort of thing."

"As long as they don't touch me," said Tiffany boldly. "I'm fine with the remarks."

"If someone touches you, I'll deal with them myself," I reassured sternly.

"You sound like you've had to deal with plenty of these characters."

"I've been on the receiving end as a waitress and a bartender. I know what it's like. And I also know what it's like to feel insecure after going through something like you have."

"I doubt your fiancé was tortured," Tiffany whispered.

"Well, I was talking about your relationship as a whole—not the torture bit. But I did do you a favor by getting rid of him."

Shamefully, she muttered, "Yes. Yes, you did."

"It doesn't get easier," I told her seriously. "You will never get over what he did to you. You'll probably have nightmares, and feel scared all the time that it will happen again—and it might. But you're stronger for what you've been through, you know? Anyone tells you different, they're wrong. You don't get _over_ something like that. You just find a way to get through it until it becomes less overwhelming."

Tiffany tilted her head to the side curiously and her expressions softened to one of empathy.

"You've been through it too. Haven't you, Miss Gordon?"

I smiled sadly saying, "Yes. I have."

Her eyes started watering, seeing someone like me having gone through what she'd been through. I touched her wrist and she looked up at me, quickly dabbing her eyes with her finger before any of those tears could mess up her flawless foundation.

"How do you get through it?" Tiffany asked, her voice broke.

"First, you tell yourself it wasn't your fault. You find someone you trust, and talk to them. Then you find a distraction."

"It _was_ my fault—I put up with it for so long…."

"And now you're free," I pointed out, gesturing to her as a person. "Now you can move on. Healing is about being able to move on, after all. And so long as you keep thinking about the past and trying to imagine what you could have done differently, you will never be able to fully live in the present."

Tiffany met my eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but this time, she wasn't quick to wipe it away. It was like she had an epiphany—although I wasn't privy to see just what that was. She grinned suddenly, which made me feel a little uncertain about whatever revelation she was having.

"You're right," Tiffany said quietly. "Miss Gordon, if it's all right with you, I'd still like a job here. But I would really like to work at the bar. I find that mixing drinks can be therapeutic, you know?"

"Well, I don't think mixing a drink is therapeutic at all unless I'm drinking one after, but to each her own, I suppose. Are you certain that this is what you want?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

I stood and held out my hand.

"Fine then," I said, as she shook it. "You'll start tomorrow. I'll notify the owner. You'll be added to the schedule and we'll go over the other minor details when you arrive. Acceptable?"

"Acceptable," she agreed.

With that said, she gratefully thanked me once more and then I watched her leave. Butch approached me within my peripheral vision; after my nearly stabbing his neck, he seemed to learn that I didn't much care for surprise visits from behind. I glanced at him begrudgingly as Butch watched the woman leave as well.

"That was the darkest interview I'd ever heard," Butch uttered. "Was any of it true?"

"All of it was true," I told him coolly.

"Who did it to you?" Butch asked.

I looked at him, saying, "That's a little personal, even for you."

Butch said sincerely, "Whoever it was, I hope you made them pay for it."

"With more than just their life."

"Did they suffer?"

"All the way to the end," I told him. "Why do you sound so concerned? You and your friends nearly beat me to death the last time we spoke—hence my desire to stab you in the neck…. which, by the way, I'm still considering."

Butch said calmly, "Any man that hurts a woman in that sense deserves the worst."

"I bit his dick off and shot him in the balls," I noted apathetically. "Does that fit your description?"

"More than ever," said Butch righteously, although he cringed at the thought. "What's your lean on getting close to the girl?"

"I don't have any plans for her, if that's what you're asking," I conveyed honestly. "She just needed someone to talk to. Her fiancé is dead—"

"—I hear you tortured him—"

"—And she has no one else to talk to," I continued as though I hadn't been interrupted.

"Lucky she has you then," said Butch quietly.

"Is she?" I returned. "I'm not exactly the shoulder one needs to cry on."

"You're something better," Butch said pointedly. "You're a realist. And that's what _she_ needs."

I chuckled darkly, "You sound like you respect me for it."

"Always have," said Butch coolly. "One of the things I always liked about you."

"Aw, that's sweet."

"Does that mean you don't want to stab me?"

I considered it and said, "Nah. I don't really want to stab you _that_ much. But if you like, you can go hug a land mine."

I patted his shoulder and walked away with Butch looking after me with a small smile on his face.

* * *

A/N: I wrote this in dedication to those who have been sexually assaulted/raped. What happened to you was not your fault. You may never 'get over it'. But, trust me, you _will_ get through it. Be easy on yourself, and find someone you trust to talk to. Everyone heals differently and in different ways. Be kind to yourself and know you are not alone. Much love!


	14. Make 'Em Happy

Chapter Fourteen: Make 'Em Happy

He called himself a comedian. I didn't know what was less funny—the fact that he called himself a comedian, or he was trying to prove it whilst on stage in front of ten other people. Sitting around the circular tables were said guests, all of whom appeared either bored, pissed, or both. The 'entertainment' of the night had started out pretty decent, giving an introduction to himself and then after that, it seemed to go downhill.

When people started jeering at him, he was steadily getting nervous, messing up his lines and jokes, despite the note cards he held in his hand. The gatherer of the entertainment was Butch Gilzean; he'd worked the scene for years with Fish Mooney backing him, and now, I had to wonder what miraculous thing this so-called comedian had done to pull the wool over his eyes.

 _How was this guy even supposed to be 'funny' when he wasn't even that?_

He threw out another joke, stammering: "If you ever get cold, just s-stand in a corner for a bit. They're usually 98 degrees….wait….." (he cleared his throat, looking at his cards) "I mean 90 degrees. Yeah, they're usually 90 degrees. Heh…."

More jeers came his way.

"Learn geometry, you shit!" One of the guests guffawed.

"Say something funny!"

"Do you know what 'funny' even means!"

 _Tough crowd._

I strolled to the bar where Tiffany Rubberdale was shadowing one of the bartenders. Noticing me, she waved; I acknowledged her and saw Butch sitting at the end, drinking a whiskey shot. I sat down next to him.

"Where did you even find this guy?" I asked, referring to the nervous comedian. "Did you pull him out of a storm drain, post-monsoon?"

"You're hilarious," Butch said, smirking at me. "Maybe you should go up there."

"Fuck that," I replied calmly. "He's already got them riled up. No way I would go up there."

"You're pretty charismatic. Maybe you could calm them down."

"Said the spider to the fly."

He snickered at my response. Three of the staff members, excluding my own girl, were talking in hushed, urgent voices as the guests started throwing papers at the middle-aged man on stage. Oswald, who was watching the spectacle nervously, noticed and he stepped to the bar counter.

"What's wrong?" Oswald questioned.

Henry and another employee left quickly so the older gentleman had to speak on their behalf. And he was nervous the entire time.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Penguin—I mean _the_ Penguin, I mean—" He stammered.

Oswald held up a hand to stop him, saying once more, " _What_ is it?"

Crestfallen, the man answered, "We're out of booze."

"What—hello, behind you there is a wall of booze," Oswald pointed out incredulously.

"That's just colored water, always has been," said the bartender weakly. "We keep the real stuff down here, but we're out."

"Then, duh, order more!" Oswald uttered impatiently.

"We tried but—"

"It's Maroni's booze," Butch finished for the nervous man, earning Oswald's attention. "And he's a little grumpy with you these days."

Relieved that the attention was directed away from him, the nervous bartender resigned to cleaning the counter top and pretending that all was well. Henry came out of the back, muttering something quizzically to his senior before the man responded, "Just don't say anything to the rest of them."

Oswald approached him, glancing at me then to Butch.

"He was hardly a fan of Fish either," he pointed out. "Why did he sell _her_ booze?"

Butch replied, "Business is business. But he hates you with a passion. And he can't kill you so…"

"This is ridiculous," Oswald responded, annoyed. "There must be a thousand places to buy booze!"

"Well, that's where it gets complicated—" Butch replied.

"—As if it wasn't already complicated—" I muttered.

"—Maroni supplies to this whole side of town," Butch continued without interruption. "And no one would dare cross him to help you."

Just at that moment, the guests started throwing more than just wads of paper at the entertainment: I swore I heard glass shatter.

"Fuck…." I muttered. "I'll be right back."

Oswald looked at me curiously, although I said nothing in response. He turned to Butch to continue their conversation about acquiring what apparently was necessary for the club's prosperity: good alcohol, for one. And I figured I would provide the other: entertainment.

I stood on the stage and looked at the comedian.

"Get off." I ordered.

"But I'm—" He began. (A bottle of beer shattered at his feet and he bowed stiffly to me.)"See you later!"

I turned to the crowd, the lights were blinding!

I lowered the microphone to my height.

"Good Evening, ladies and gentleman and self-identified objects in the audience," I greeted, smiling sweetly.

The jeers stopped, if only just to see where I was going with this.

Improvisation was not my strongest suit—and I admittedly had a bit of stage fright. My legs felt like they were being placed in a vat of iced water, and I could feel my heart beat thumping through a small vein in my neck. I cleared my throat.

"So I apologize for the so-called comedian," I said lightly. "When we hired him, we thought he would be, you know…funny."

I heard a chuckle, if only for moral support.

"With a show of hands, how many of you here have a dark sense of humor?" I asked, raising my own indicatively. After a moment, I said to the stage hand, "Would you please turn down the lights? I can't see anyone agreeing with me."

"Sure…." one of the staff members stood to the side and dimmed the lights. I was able to see my audience.

Everyone except a few were raising their hands. I could see the back, and saw that Butch and Oswald had finished talking; the latter strolled up the stage. I sensed that he wanted to speak to me shortly and I lowered myself down to hear him.

"What are you doing?" Oswald asked.

"Keeping the people happy," I reasoned. "They want a comedian? They'll get one."

"I thought you didn't like the stage," Oswald reminded.

"I don't," I muttered. "I have never been more terrified in my entire life."

"Why are you doing this then?"

"Like I said, to keep the guests happy." I said nervously. "You look like you're on a mission."

"As I just finished telling Butch, I have to procure some alcohol for my dwindling clientele," Oswald said, verbatim. "In the mean time, would you ensure that nothing else goes wrong in my absence?"

"You got it, boss." I said dutifully. "Is Butch going with you?"

"I highly doubt it. Despite his previous affirmations, I still believe he enjoys me watching me fail."

"If the crowd goes up in arms, I suppose it'll be nice having him to disperse the crowd while I try and make a run for it, huh?" I joked. I said seriously, "Have fun, boss. Take Tomas with you—he's an efficient form of back-up."

"Fine then. You'll be all right here by yourself?" Oswald asked; there was a protective edge to his tone.

"Five-by-five," I answered, winking.

He kissed my hand and strode away. I straightened and smiled at the crowd again. They were watching expectantly.

"Okay," I continued. "Let's have a bit of honesty in the crowd, huh? How many of you are gangsters?"

A couple hands rose to the air.

"Two. Okay, you can put your hands down. Now, how many of you don't like pineapple on pizza?" I asked curiously.

The couple lowered their hands and everyone else raised their own.

I said loudly, "That makes all of you just as bad as the rest of us!"

More snickers, and the two self-identified gangsters laughed loudly in appreciation.

"You know, most people don't know how an architect measures the distance between the roof of a building and its foundation?" I told the crowd.

The guests glanced at each other.

"Sure, there's all sorts of ways to measure—yard sticks, tape, the like. But here in Gotham, we have a different way of measuring distance from the roof to the ground, don't we?"

There was a titter of agreement.

I said smoothly, "A lot of people would presume that the person who built the Gotham Bridge used the measuring stick to determine the distance from the pinnacle to the ground. In Gotham, we just tie a rope around two of our own people, push them off the ledge, and wait for the bodies to hit the ground, and _then_ we cut the rope. It gives a brand new meaning to the old adage 'measure twice, cut once'."

At first there were crickets. Then one snicker caused a ripple affect of several giggles. Butch looked at me from the back of the room, smirking. Some people clapped and one fella even whistled in approval.

I did a little bow, and gestured for the pianist to come on stage. The stagehands rolled a piano onto the surface.

"Thank you, everyone," I addressed the crowd. "Next up, we have a pianist. Accompanying her is John Dubianchi. I'm assuming they're going to be performing together as one, otherwise this will be an awkward moment for all of us."

A few snorted in laughter—I think they were still drunk off laughter from the dark joke. I placed the microphone up at a higher setting since John, the singer, stood taller than myself. He looked at me appreciatively.

"I'm glad you got them in a better mood," He muttered in a deep voice. "I was about to write my will."

"Don't be too quick to reconsider," I warned. "It's a tough crowd."

"I didn't realize Penguin had a sense of humor," said John with a smile. I sent him a confused look, and he added, "He must have a good sense of humor if he managed to catch you."

"Aw shucks."

The pianist, the same that Henry had tried hitting on, looked at me expectantly, saying, "Our other performer is running late."

"What do you mean 'running late'?" I asked.

"She's running behind on time," she clarified.

"I know what 'running late' means," I snapped, glaring at her.

"Carol," John addressed the pianist, "where _is_ Rose?"

"I don't know," Carol answered resentfully. "She was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago—before that guy came on stage and started ruining everything."

"I don't know," said John, looking at me. "Rose was supposed to sing with me."

"Who is Rose?" I asked.

"We're doing a duet together," said John unhappily. "That was the whole point of the damn piano."

"Don't look at me like that, Johnathan," Carol snapped. "You knew full and well that my piano was going to be up here. It's not my fault Rose is late—she is _always_ late—"

"Shut up, the two of you!" I ordered.

Carol and John looked at me quizzically.

I turned to John: "The guests are waiting. What do you want me to do?"

"Can you sing?" John asked.

"I—"

"Can you _sing_?" John demanded. "All I need is someone who can sing. Then we're fine. Then we're good."

"Sure, I can sing," I responded defensively. "I can sing very beautifully—but I don't do this sort of thing."

"'Sing'?"

"Anything on stage," I declared. "I hate being on stage, in the lime light."

"You were just doing it," John pointed out, indicating my comedy bit.

"That was all improvisation!" I snapped. "I can't fucking sing on stage. I'll fucking die of a heart attack."

"Do you know anything with Elvis Presley?" John asked.

" _What_?" I hissed.

"Elvis Presley, King of—"

"—I know who Elvis Presley is!" I interrupted snidely. "Why does that fucking matter?"

Carol butted in: "Do you know the lyrics to 'Can't Help Falling In Love With You'?"

"Of course I do," I responded. "It's a classic."

"That's our song," said John, glancing between Carol and myself. "That's the one Rose and I were going to sing, but she's not here. And your guests, Miss Gordon, are getting ticked off…."

I glanced at the crowd, watching them frown back at me.

"You two are infuriating," I grumbled.

"We're not able to do the song without—" Carol began, but John interrupted her.

"Rose isn't coming, for god's sake. Miss Gordon…." John looked at me desperately. "Will you please?"

"Ugh, **fine**." I hissed, grabbing the microphone.

"Thank you so much." John said gratefully.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah—you owe me a drink after this," I snapped.

"I'll buy you a _round_ ," John expressed his utmost gratitude.

I looked at the crowd once more.

"Good Evening…again," I said with a soft laugh (only to hide my nerves). "I'm back!"

Frowns turned to smiles.

 _Well, that's always a good sign._

"Today, there has been a change of events," I told them all calmly. "How many of you like Elvis Presley?"

The majority of the people in the crowd (from ten people had now become twenty) raised their hands. I noticed Butch was gone—how long he'd been gone, I didn't know—but that was rectified as I saw Oswald and Butch come into the club, shortly followed by Tomas and others with a _lot_ of crates. I figured that they had been able to acquire what the club had been desperately needing.

"Well," I continued with some gusto. "Tonight will be one of those nights where improvisation is apparently the theme of entertainment."

From the back, Oswald and Butch were talking and drinking together (That was odd) and they turned in their seats to see me on the stage….still. I forced my attention back to the audience, who were expectantly watching.

"Apparently," (I slapped myself mentally as I heard my own voice shake). "Apparently, the third performer, a woman named Rose, has failed to show to sing a duet with Mr. Dubianchi….I know, it sucks, right?" (I responded to the jeers.) "However, in light of circumstance, I will be taking her place."

I glared at John, muttering, "The things I do for these people astounds me."

"You're doing great," John whispered.

"Just play the goddamn song!" I hissed. "John, you'll have to nudge me for when my part comes up. I have no fucking idea when to start and when to end."

"I'll help you." John reassured.

"Fucking better," I grumbled.

Carol played the intro.

Then John sang in marvelous imitation of Elvis Presley's voice:

" _Wise men say_

 _Only fools rush in._

 _But I can't help_

 _falling in love with you."_

He nudged me.

I sang (shakily at first then steadily, my voice only shook due to my vibrato rather than my anxiety):

" _Shall I stay_

 _Would it be a sin_

 _If I can't help_

 _Falling in love with you."_

Then we both sang in perfect harmony, where his natural deep baritone rose half an octave and my natural soprano lowered to an alto:

" _Like a river flows_

 _Surely to the sea_

 _Darling, so it goes,_

 _Somethings are meant to be."_

John nudged me. I glanced up and saw Oswald smiling at me.

I sang:

" _Take my hand._

 _Take my whole life too._

 _For I can't help_

 _Falling in love with you."_

Then once more, in harmony, John and I sang:

" _Like a river flows_

 _Surely to the sea_

 _Darling so it goes_

 _Somethings are meant to be."_

" _Take my hand._

 _Take my whole life too._

 _For I can't help_

 _Falling in love with you."_

John finished the song, smiling lovingly at Carol:

" _For I can't help_

 _Falling in love with you."_

Carol smiled back at John and the soft piano music trailed off naturally.

At first there were crickets. But then slowly but surely, an eruption of genuine applause thundered throughout the club. I stared at everyone incredulously, looking at John and Carol who were grinning back at me.

John spoke in the microphone: "Give Miss Gordon a round of applause! Wasn't she just beautiful!"

There was an encore. I felt my face burn a deep shade of red, and was certain that it outdid the color of my own ginger roots. Looking further back in the crowd, Oswald was clapping as well, and he winked at me. Even Butch was clapping, a small smile trying to tug its way at the corner of his mouth.

I cleared my throat and said into the microphone: "Well, thank you all for that. And let's give a round of applause for John Dubianchi and his lovely companion, Carol Dubianchi."

I introduced the next bit of entertainment who appeared to be some puppeteer and strode off the stage. John and Carol met me at the end of the stairs.

"You certainly do sing beautifully," John noted. "That went better than if Rose was actually here."

Carol said pointedly, "I'd have sung it but I don't have the same type of pipes."

"Well, you do, but you just prefer to play the piano than sing with me, darling," John returned, smirking at me. "She's always making excuses not to sing with me."

"You make excuses not to clean the bathroom—"

"—That's a whole different story—"

"—I consider them the same—"

"—I can't believe we're going to rehash this argument again—"

John and Carol continued on their way, hand-in-hand. I looked after them, perplexed, wondering how long they had been together.

I felt eyes on me, so I turned to see Oswald smiling brightly.

"You were magnificent," Oswald applauded. "Stunning as ever."

"Rose never showed," I said calmly.

"I doubt the performance would have been the same—especially the audience's response." Oswald commented.

I half-smiled.

"They love you," Oswald reaffirmed.

"So I can sing," I muttered.

Butch popped up from behind, adding, "Not just your voice—they responded to _you_. You had them dying of laughter in their seats!"

"I sure hope not," I said pointedly. "Our numbers would go down."

Butch chuckled, pointing at me: "See, that humor? That's what they like—you have charisma, Sylvia. You were made to entertain."

"I'm not made to do anything," I told Butch coolly. "I simply took the stand because if I didn't, they all would have left. But, I will admit. It felt pretty good."

Oswald took my hand, kissed the back of it: "You know what I'm going to suggest, Pigeon" (Butch glanced at Oswald oddly, hearing the pet name) "You let me know what you decide."

"Sure," I said, smiling. "I'll let you know by the end of the day."

He leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and then walked on. Butch looked at me expectantly.

"What?" I said defensively.

"'Pigeon'?" Butch repeated.

"Can't be worse that 'Butch'." I teased.

"You're terrible—I didn't get to choose that name."

"Well, I could call you 'Bitch'. It's only one vowel off."

"I'd rather you not."

I shrugged saying, "Options, Butch. Options."

"I guess you're liking me a little more, huh?" Butch suggested as I followed him to the bar; he sat beside me. "Not so grumpy with me anymore?"

"I'm still debating," I returned. "You used to work for her, for Fish."

"You did too."

"We both know I didn't really work for her just to work _for her_. I did it so I could work _with him_."

Butch looked past me to see Oswald directing Tomas and Gabe as far as where to store the newly acquired booze and so on. I followed his gaze and turned back to look at Butch.

"You'd go above and beyond for that guy, wouldn't you?" Butch guessed.

"You're not as stupid as you look," I said, smirking. "And I already have. And I would go even further, if he asked it of me."

He poured me a shot of whiskey, offering it to me.

"What's he done for _you_?" Butch asked.

"He's my fiance, Butch," I returned lightly. "All he has to do is be there for me. So far he has—more than anyone else has in the past."

"How's your brother, the detective?"

I shrugged: "He has a new girlfriend."

"The thing with the blonde fell through?" Butch asked. "I liked her."

"I know you did. And it's because of you and Zsasz that she left Gotham in the first place," I said curtly.

"It was just a job, Sylvia," Butch explained, business-like. "You know how Fish is."

"Was," I corrected. "She's not in Gotham anymore."

"You don't think she'll come back?" Butch asked stoically.

"Am I to assume that you do?" I responded sardonically.

He said nothing to the fact.

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Gilzean," I said carefully. "Victor may have fixed you in his basement, wired you to do whatever Oswald tells you to do. But I am still on the fence about your loyalty. I'll be friendly to you because Oswald wants me to, but…." I downed the shot of whiskey. "You make one move to hurt the love of my life, I will gut you and make you eat your own fucking intestines. Got me?"

Butch nodded, unaffected: "I got you."

"Cool beans," I said. I smiled, "Now that's out of the way…." I refilled his glass. "How did you get Maroni to give you this much alcohol?"

"We stole it."

"Shocker there," I said, smirking at him. "How'd you manage that?"

"Well, your 'love of your life' wanted to go in, guns blazing. But I have a few cops in the pocket still. They helped us out."

"Which officers?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Butch taunted.

"I can punch you in the face and then ask again nicely."

"I'd rather you not."

I smiled saying, "Like I said, Butchy. Options."

"'Butchy'?" He scoffed.

"Do you prefer 'Bitch'?"

"No."

"Then 'Butchy' it is," I said. I clinked my glass against his: "Cheers."


	15. Sibling Hate-Love Relationship

Chapter Fifteen: Sibling Love-Hate Relationship

* * *

Tiffany had only been working in the club scene for a week. Not even a week. So naturally, I didn't think anything would have happened so quickly. I'd gathered the day shift together before the club opened, dishing out the duties to the individuals such as who would be responsible for taking out the trash for pick-up, who would be waiting on which tables, and who would be ensuring peace among the more drunken patrons, as well as responsible for counting the register at the end of the day—that sort of thing. I'd dropped down to the bottom of the list.

"Who is going to show Tiffany how to make a slippery nipple—stop giggling, folks, we're grown adults here!" I said without looking up from my list (once more, I was standing on a chair because I was short).

"Tiffany isn't here, Boss," Henry spoke up.

I looked up and turned my head to the left where his voice had sounded. The staff glanced at each other, then at me nervously.

"Why not?" I asked calmly. "Is she sick?"

"She's in the hospital," Henry answered politely.

I placed my notepad on the table none too gently. Some of them flinched.

"No one bothered to tell me?" I questioned irritably.

Unaffected by my mood change, Henry continued with the same politeness: "She was in a car accident, couple blocks from here. Some guys in a van ran a red light—newspapers are calling them the 'Red Hood Gang'. Ever since they started robbing banks."

"How long ago?"

"Couple days ago," said Henry. "The Gang's been robbing banks and—"

"I don't care what the gang is doing, kid. I meant when did Tiffany get hurt?" I replied vehemently.

"Oh, sorry. Yesterday."

"Fine." I sighed. "Get to work. I'll be back."

"Who's in charge while you're gone?" asked one of the nameless bartenders.

" _Penguin_ , you idiot!" I snapped. "I'm only in charge when _he_ isn't here."

"Oh right…."

 _Fucking morons._

I called Oswald on my way to the hospital, speaking into the phone while driving one-handed. He answered on the third ring.

"It's me," I said quickly before he could say something to distract me. "I left the club, and I'm on my way to the hospital."

I could hear the worry in his tone when he asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm just going to visit Tiffany."

"Who?"

"The girl that started working at the bar," I clarified. "You know—burnt and dead fiancé, battered woman…."

"Oh, her." Oswald recalled.

"Yes, her," I confirmed. "Henry just told me she was in a car accident. I'm going to make sure she is okay."

"Fine. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I just wanted to let you know where I was going," I returned sweetly. "I'll call you when I leave. I love you."

"Love you too."

We hung up at the same time. Prior to arriving, I stopped by the nearest fast food joint, and purchased a chicken sandwich, fries, and a diet Sprite. I parked the car just outside the hospital, striding into Gotham General. I stood in line behind an irritable mother and her obnoxious devil spawn before the pediatrician called the patient's name and the kid started running towards them; a wave of relief washed over the woman's face as she accompanied her son to his appointment. Shortly after, the receptionist asked for my name.

"Sylvia Gordon," I answered politely. "I'm here to see an employee of mine: her name is Tiffany Rubberdale. She may also go by 'Drifas'?"

"Ah yes," said the receptionist. She looked at me sternly. "Do you have any association with a 'Burke Drifas'? It says here that he is not permitted to come within fifty feet of her."

 _She had a restraining order against him. Good girl._

"I have nothing to do with that man," I promised.

"You're not on the restricted list…. her room is on the third floor," informed the receptionist. "If you go up the elevator to the third floor and go down the hall to your right, her room will be first on the left."

"Third floor, right, then left, got it. Thank you very much, Ma'am."  
"No problem. Next!"

I did as she instructed, swerving through the hallways before finally finding a working elevator. This place was a damn maze! I didn't think I would be back in Gotham General for another year or so…. you know, until I was shot in the neck again by another moron.

I took the elevator up, thankfully alone. When the doors opened, I continued to the right and stopped at the first room I saw on the left. The door was halfway closed. I tapped the frame with my knuckles, rapping lightly.

"Come in."

I slipped inside, pushed aside the curtain, and pulled it back to its original position when I had come in. Tiffany Rubberdale was sitting upright in the bed, a tray of food in front of her. Seeing as she hadn't touched any of it, I could not help but smile.

"How are you?" I asked gently.

For having gotten into a car accident, she looked great. A few scratches on her face where debris had flown and had torn into her skin, and she had a few bruises on her exposed legs. The bruises on her arms left by her abusive ex-fiancé were now yellow, but healing.

"Hungry," Tiffany answered gravely.

I placed the bag of fast food in front of her.

"Oh, bless you," Tiffany thanked, smiling widely. "I've not eaten real food all day."

"I know the feeling," I returned, smiling as well. "It's like prison food, but worse."

"Is that from experience as well?"

"Partly," I admitted shamelessly. "I was in and out of Juvie as a teenager. The food doesn't get any better."

I sat on the edge of her bed while she gorged on the chicken sandwich. The pleased look on her face made me reconsider if I should have even been in the same room as her and a chicken sandwich; she looked as though she might black out from a powerful orgasm as she ate a delicious French fry, licking her lips.

"How did you find out where I was?" Tiffany asked curiously, licking her lips again. She took a long drink of the Diet Sprite.

"One of your co-workers mentioned that you were in an accident. And you didn't show up for work," I told her. "I was worried."

"Sorry I didn't call," Tiffany said remorsefully. "It's not that I didn't want to. It's just that I couldn't. I don't have anyone's number…."

I stood and pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wrote my personal phone number on it with the marker that had been left on a dry-erase board nailed on the door; it detailed the current names of nurses and doctors of the hour. The nurses switched patients every four hours; the doctors, every twelve.

"You were magnificent, by the way," Tiffany complimented as she threw the scrap of her dinner into the trash bin beside her. "On stage. You have a nice voice."

"Thanks."

"It's like listening to a choir of angels sing in all kinds of harmony, but instead, you're only one person. It's really magnetic, in some ways. I bet you get that a lot," said Tiffany.

"Yes, but not in so many words and certainly not so descriptive," I uttered modestly.

"Am I embarrassing you?"

"Yes, but I can take it."

"You don't like to sing in public, do you?"

"Only Oswald and my brother have ever really heard me sing," I commented factually. "I don't prefer to sing in public because I have stage fright. I make a great effort not to get out of my comfort zone."

"You're good at it, though. I listened to you, to the people in the crowd. They liked you—and not just the singing, the comedy act too. They responded to you," Tiffany persuaded. "All of those people were cheering you on, and it's because they relate to you on a personal level."

"You're quite the motivational speaker today."

"I'm only telling you what everyone else wants you to see," Tiffany said logically. "You don't pretend to be someone you're not. You show who you are up front. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"Got all of that from me telling a dark joke, did you?" I said skeptically.

"You connected with them."

"Connecting with a crowd full of gangsters would not be the highest point of my life," I told her.

"Well, at least you know who you're dealing with," Tiffany murmured, glancing at her IV monitor. "You _see_ people. You can read them."

"It's not a gift, I assure you. I was raised by a District Attorney and my brother is a detective. You learn to see things objectively…. sometimes the heart gets involved; that's when things get a little muddy."

"Like with what happened with Burke?" Tiffany piped.

I raised my eyebrows at her, not having expected that reaction.

She continued knowingly, "You tortured him because he was working against Penguin. But you didn't decide to kill him until _after_ you found out what he had been done to _me_. Not that I don't appreciate what you did for me."

I smiled saying, "Perhaps I'm not the only one that can read people."

She smiled back.

A nurse came inside, changed out the IV drip and wrapped the cord around the machine, wordlessly pulling it out of the hallway after disinfecting it. She acknowledged me with a curt nod of her head and she was out of the door.

"Has the doctor said whether or not you would be discharged today?" I asked, changing the topic.

"No. But he was here early in the morning. Seven-ish."

"And how's the prognosis?"

"Mild," Tiffany reported nonchalantly. "The people that hit my car caused a fender bender. I've got a few scrapes, some scratches, but no broken bones." (She smiled guiltily.) "You know better than anyone else that I have experienced a lot worse."

"That, I do." I said, patting her hand.

"Looks busy out there," Tiffany noted.

And it was. People were bustling about, holding clipboards, pointing every which a way but not in such an urgent matter as they had done before when a code was going over the intercom.

"Maybe it's shift change," I suggested.

"Maybe," said Tiffany. "Do you want me to let you know when I get discharged?"  
"Please do. Call me anytime; I always have my phone."

"Thanks, Miss Gordon."

I held out my hand. She took it.

"Sylvia," I corrected sweetly.

"Thank you…. Sylvia," Tiffany said happily.

I left the room and started walking down the hall. Then I bumped into Jim, who was holding a wrapped bagel, purchased from the food court. Seeing me, Jim did a double glance.

"Vee!" Jim exclaimed, cracking a smile.

"Hey," I greeted, smiling. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a friend," said Jim vaguely. "You?"  
"Doing the same." I returned, gesturing behind me to the door I just closed. "She was in a car accident—fender bender. Have you heard of this Red Hood Gang yet?"

"Of course," said Jim, rolling his eyes. "People are standing in banks just waiting for them to rob it so they can get their fair share of the loot."

"Is that right? Well, if you get the inside scoop of which bank they'll be targeting next, would you let me know?" I teased. "I wouldn't mind having an extra bit of cash for Christmas shopping."

Jim gave me a look that said 'don't you even dare' but then asked sincerely, "Is your friend okay?"

"She'll be fine," I nodded. "Only a few scratches. The Gang totaled her car—she's awake if you want to try for a description of the driver."

"That's generous of you," Jim said, glancing inside the room where Tiffany was. "I'll try her later."

"How's _your_ friend?" I glanced at the bagel. "Hungry, I guess?"

"Doing well." He answered, then arbitrarily asked, "Do you want to meet Bruce Wayne?"

Skeptically, I said, " _The_ Bruce Wayne? Parents-Murdered-In-Crime-Alley Bruce—?"

"Yeah," Jim cut me off short. " _That_ Bruce. His butler was stabbed—"

"No one is safe in Gotham anymore," I stated derisively. "Corrupt people floating up from weather balloons…. Non-offenders thinking they're goats and going after rich kids…. butlers are getting stabbed..."

Jim smiled bitterly saying, "That's the way it goes."

"I didn't even know anyone employed butlers anymore."

"The Waynes are an old-traditional kind of family."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"About the tradition?" Jim asked.

"No—that butlers are getting stabbed."

"You're surprised at that?"

"I am, but I _shouldn't_ be."

"Come with me. I'll introduce you." Jim said, taking my wrist. "The fresh faces will be good for you."

"Flesh 'blood', you mean," I teased.

"You're hilarious."

He guided me into a room where an older gentleman lied in bed; however, due to the upright position, he was sitting up. Like Tiffany had been before, he was hooked up to two machines. A younger lad, who I could only assume was Bruce Wayne, sat in a large brown armchair: narrow chin, dark brown eyes, darker hair, and skinny.

"Slim pickings from the food court," Jim said as he entered, handing the bagel to Bruce.

Seeing me, Bruce suddenly stood. It caught me by surprise.

"Hey—Hi," Bruce greeted nervously. His eyes darted to Jim, then to the butler, then back at me.

"Bruce, this is my sister, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Bruce Wayne, and his butler, Alfred Pennyworth."

Like the gentleman he had been raised to behave, Bruce held out his hand and I shook it. Alfred was bed-ridden, it appeared, so I strolled to his side of the bed. He held out his hand to shake mine and when I gave it to him, he kissed the back of my hand.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Alfred replied—he had a British accent.

"Through and through," I said with a smile, and he returned it.

Bruce sat down, saying shyly, "I didn't know you had a sister, Detective."

I poked Jim in the ribs.

"He's so secretive," I teased, smirking at him.

"Your name just never came up," Jim explained.

"Funny—I mention you to all of _my_ friends," I pointed out sneakily. "They can't stop talking about _you_."

Jim rolled his eyes, despite Alfred and Bruce exchanging suspicious glances.

"I just happened to be visiting a friend of mine," I told them politely. "She was in a car accident yesterday."

"I do hope she's alright," Alfred commented.

"She's fine, thanks for asking," I returned happily.

"Do you live with Detective Gordon?" Bruce asked suddenly.

"That's a little personal, Master Bruce, don't you think?" Alfred scolded softly.

"It's fine," I reassured, then said to Bruce: "I don't. My fiancé just recently moved in with me. The dust is finally starting to settle."

"Funny you say that," Jim muttered. "I hear you have a couple roommates."

" _One_ roommate," I corrected. "And Tomas _isn't_ a 'roommate'. He's a guard."

"A guard for what?" Bruce asked curiously.

"Extra security," I quipped, grinning despite the kid's growing curiosity. "Can't be too careful these days."

"No, you can't," Alfred said coolly.

I suspected there was something else in that tone of his, but I couldn't pick up on his meaning. However, he and Bruce exchanged a set of glances. I looked at Jim inquisitively but he just shrugged a shoulder like he didn't know what it meant either.

"Well, this has been fun and only slightly awkward," I pointed out, clasping my hands together. "If you don't mind, I have to get back to work. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Pennyworth—"

"—Alfred—" He insisted as I shook his hand.

"…Alfred," I repeated, smiling kindly. I shook Bruce's hand as well: "And it's been a pleasure meeting you, Bruce Wayne." (I turned to Jim). "Tiffany is awake if you want to ask her about the driver. I can let her know that you'll be dropping by for a visit."

"That'll be helpful; thanks, Vee."

"What are siblings for?" I said, bumping my hip playfully into his.

"I'll walk you out," Jim offered, placing his hand in the middle of my back.

When we were a few paces from the room, I sensed that Jim wanted to speak more in private. I leaned my shoulder against the glass; he looped a couple fingers through the belt loops of his slacks, ball of his hand on his hips. It was going to be one of _those_ discussions. I prepared myself for an argument.

"Listen," Jim began in a hushed tone, "I know you're angry with me for not shooting Travinsky when you told me too. I also know there's some stuff going on with you that you're not ready to tell me yet—"

"I told you what happened to me. We spoke on the phone, remember?"

"You sounded apathetic on the phone."

"Well, it was a traumatic experience. I'm fine now."

"That doesn't mean you've healed," Jim said softly. "You need to talk to someone about what happened in that office with Maroni's men."

"I talked to Oswald."

"I mean, talking to a therapist, or someone who can help you move on."

"I _have_ moved on," I insisted coolly. "You're just unhappy because I didn't come to _you_."

"Fine, you got me," Jim admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am a little disappointed that you went to Cobblepot before you came to me…Surprised me, actually."

"Why would it? He's my fiancé."

"I'm your _brother_."

I scoffed, "Oh good lord, it's not about **you** , Jim. It's about me. I felt more comfortable talking to Oswald about what happened. If you have trouble understanding that, I'm sorry. I was in a dark place—and he helped me through it."

"What did _he_ have to do to get you through it, though?" Jim said suspiciously.

I smiled but it didn't reach my eyes this time.

"He was there for me when I needed him to be," I said steadily. "We went out to dinner, we had normal conversation. When I talked about what happened, he was understanding. We didn't argue about nonsense like you and I have a tendency to do. And let's face it, Jim: You and I don't talk unless you need something from me—don't look at me like that, you _know_ it's true!"

" _We_ could have met up for lunch, talked about what happened," Jim suggested pointedly.

"And then we would have been interrupted by your job—yet again."

Jim frowned saying, "You can't say I don't make time for you."

"Oh really? When _do_ you?" I retorted.

"Forgive me if my _honorable_ job keeps me from having a day off while your crooked boyfriend—"

"Oh please, not _this_ again. We're not talking about Oswald, James. We're talking about you!"

"You're comparing—"

I cut him off furiously: " _You're_ the one who keeps comparing yourself to him! You're so jealous that he and I are closer than you or I will ever be! Despite what his position in Falcone's ranks consist of, he _always_ makes time for me. Always. That's more than what can be said about you."

"You know what my job entails, Vee," Jim snarled.

"I sure do. But you can't use that as an excuse for not dropping by for a visit. You don't just come to me because you want to see me."

"I came and saw you when you were in the hospital," Jim protested.

"Sure, you did. You were worried about me. Of course, you would be; I'm your **kin**." I told him pointedly. "You felt guilty for not taking down Travinsky when I told you to. You came to visit me because you needed to know that I forgave you for what happened and I have. But like I said, you came—not because I was in the hospital, hurting—but because _you_ needed something from me. You _needed_ to hear that my getting shot wasn't your fault, so you could sleep better at night. And after that, you didn't come visit me again until well after the fact."

He seemed to protest but I was on a roll so I kept going.

I kept my tone relatively calm: "I've put you before myself _many_ times: When Barbara left, who did you come to? When you were going after Sionis and none of your corrupted asshat cop buddies came, who was fighting alongside you the entire fucking time, huh?"

"I didn't ask you to come—"

" _You didn't have to!_ " I snarled. "You were going into danger _alone—_ and your cop friends may have hated you but they should have gone, none the less. I put aside my plans, my job, even my own personal welfare to make sure that you didn't face that horse's ass alone. I didn't ask for anything in return, James! And what about when you and Harvey were about to take down Falcone and the Mayor, where did you go first to hunker down from the other crime families? You went to _me_. And Lord knows _I_ didn't get anything out of it."

Jim was frowning deeply.

 _"_ Face it, James. You come to me on your own initiative when you want something from me," I said bluntly. "It'd be nice to be graced by your presence without there being something in it for you for a change—speaking of which, I do _not_ appreciate you turning down Oswald's invitation. After all, _he_ helped **you** put away Flass!"

Jim shoved his hand over my mouth as a doctor and nurse walked by; the hospital staff gave us a quick second-glance before hurrying onto the next whining patient. I glared at him and he slowly put his hand down apologetically.

"You want to say that a little louder?" Jim dared. "I don't think everyone in the hospital heard you."

"See—you don't want any part of my life until you are desperate for help, and when you finally get it, you pretend it never happened. You snub the people who helped you from the beginning," I sneered. "You know what that's called, Jimmy? Huh? It's called 'being a hypocrite'. You say you detest dirty cops—"

"—That's because I do—"

"—You work with several—"

"—That's because I have to—"

"—Just like you _had_ to go to Oswald to get dirt on Flass so _you_ could 'single-handedly' put him down!" I snapped.

"Don't you—"

"Don't I _what_?" I snarled. "Your hands are dirty. And you pretend they're not except for all the times when **they are**!"

Jim frowned at me.

I took a deep breath, rubbed my face, and forced myself to speak calmly due to the fact that there were people starting to peer over at us from the bays.

"You're an idealist, a moralist. And how I _envy_ that. God knows I hate you for it. But it's the same reason I love you. Just like the reason you love _me_ is that I'm a realist; I don't feed around the bush. I don't bullshit. I'm not about to start now."

"You're angry because I threw away a stupid invitation?" Jim exclaimed incredulously.

"Is that really the only thing you've heard? The fucking invitation is not the issue, here—it's you. If you don't want to own up to the fact that you got your hands dirty, fine—but don't come to Oswald, asking for a favor, and then treat him like yesterday's news. You treat Oswald like a tool! And he _knows_ you do!" I responded passionately. "And he _lets_ you because he wants to be your friend."

"I don't want to be his friend."

"Fine!" I retorted. "Then you should expect from here on out that any favor you request of him, you'll owe him one in return!"

Jim frowned, pointing to the elevators: "I think you should go."

"Wow, Jim—for once you've come up with something that _doesn't_ sound like a bad idea."

I turned on my heel.

He watched me leave. I didn't look back.

* * *

A/N: So, I'll admit that a lot of my personal emotions made their way into this chapter. I hated it when Gordon told Oswald he didn't want him in the GCPD station anymore, and threw his invitation away. I wanted to punch him in the nose. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed that chapter. :) It was fun writing it!


	16. Hurricane Sylvia

Chapter Sixteen: Hurricane Sylvia

* * *

A/N: TRIGGER WARNING: Sylvia experiences some strong emotions here, so just be aware of that. Love you all, and again, thanks for the reviews :o)

* * *

 **NARCO DETECTIVE VINDICATED: Murder Charges Dropped.**

I dropped the titled _Gotham Gazette_ down on the coffee table, and reclined back against the couch, nestling comfortably in my living room.

Had Jim and I not ended things badly at the hospital, I would have called him up and asked to see if he was okay— Flass getting released even after having the murder weapon, I knew that had to get him steamed.

I wouldn't call him though. I was still seething from the argument. I felt guilty for yelling at him, calling him a dirty cop, but was I wrong?

 _Nope, you're absolutely right…_

He was hurt by my words, I could tell. I wanted to call him, tell him I was sorry, but I doubted he would reciprocate.

Oswald had yet to make me choose between Jim and him, but I felt like I was in the middle of a tug of war. I wanted to be there for Jim, to be the good sister, and help him when he needed it. But it seemed to backfire on me. At some point, Jim would have to stop nagging me about my love life, my criminal background, and just learn to accept what would never change.

I stared a hole into the television, blinking back to reality when the news anchor reported that a witness had stepped forth and stated that the evidence planted on Flass had been falsified.

Tomas, dressed in his usual gray Armani suit, stepped forward in my peripheral vision. His hands were clasped in front of him, eyes forward as he digested the same information, watching the news. He nervously observed me as though I might spontaneously combust.

But I didn't.

After all, it didn't upset _my_ plans that Flass had been vindicated. Did it demonstrate just how corrupt the legal system was—oh definitely, but I had known this would happen. Flass was protected. I was surprised that it had even gotten this far.

"You're not yelling…" Tomas noted.

I turned my attention to him: "Should I be?"

"Detective Flass was let go."  
"So he was," I acknowledged. "I expected as much."

"Have you heard from your brother?"

"No."  
Tomas scoffed, "You're not going to call him—make sure he's okay?"

"No," I said icily. "I am not."

He muttered under his breath, "What an icy bitch."

I glanced at the television and then back at Tomas, who was watching me with a look of judgment.

Whatever his curiosity, I didn't much care for the standoffish tone.

I lifted my legs off the coffee table, tucking them underneath me.

"Have a seat, Tomas." I offered, patting the cushion beside me on the couch.

Hesitantly, he did as I asked. I handed him the remote.

"Now switch it to something you enjoy."

"Is there a point you're trying to make?" Tomas asked quietly.

"No point. Just do as I ask. Please."

He grunted a small cough inside his throat nervously, then turned his head to the television. While sitting on the edge of his seat, he flipped through the channels, glancing at me occasionally as I watched him like a hawk. His forehead began to glisten with perspiration; he kept his legs together rather than apart as he would normally do when he was relaxed. His thumb lifted off the remote, and he'd stopped flipping through the TV guide—on the TV was a cooking channel with a morbidly obese chef explaining how to tenderize a steak.

"Will this do?" Tomas asked, looking sideways at me.

"Why are you asking me?" I returned calmly. "I told you to find something _you_ want to watch."

"Well, I don't want to sound rude but I still feel like you're trying to prove a point." Tomas insisted, placing the remote stiffly on the coffee table.

"Am I making you nervous?"

He admitted, "You're just really calm. It's a little unsettling."

I folded my arms on my lap, and shifted so my bare feet now touched the carpet. He blinked faster than usual; even swallowing seemed difficult for him.

"That's not what I asked."  
"Yes. You're making me nervous," Tomas said finally.

"Good. I am glad I can still make you nervous. I lied; I was making a point. Your being nervous around me is _precisely_ my point. The relationship with my brother is my business alone—if I want to call him, I will do so without anyone's suggestion or approval, including yours." I said dangerously.

"I was only offering—"

"I appreciate the candor," I stated curtly. "But you're forgetting your place. You may live under my roof, and we may have candid discussions about your life and mine but we are not friends. So, when you speak to me, you will do so respectively and _without_ judgment."

"Ma'am, I think you have some misgivings about my intentions…"

"You asked whether or not I heard from Detective Gordon. I said 'no'—"

"No offense, Ma'am, but you're acting a little rude—"

"What if I am?" I questioned, standing to my feet. "Am I being an 'icy bitch' again?"

His jaw quirked a little, and he looked at me, dumb-founded. As if I hadn't heard him.

"That's right. I'm not deaf," I said curtly. "But by all means, if you think I'm rude—"

He rose to his feet as well, standing a good foot taller than myself. If he had known what was good for him, he would have remained seated. His height difference only made me want to put him down on his knees.

"You're looking to pick a fight," I challenged. "Sit your ass back down, or so help me."

He remained standing, staring me down.

"I've had a _long week_ , Tomas. Think this through." I said coldly.

He glanced at the couch, like he might submit. Instead, he defiantly raised his chin so it appeared as though he was standing taller.

"Okay," I said, smirking. "You think I'm being rude? Think I'm being a bitch. Fine. I want you to punch the rudeness out of me."

"You're five feet tall and 130 pounds. I'm six-foot and I weight twice as much as you do."

"You're so ignorant if you think that matters," I snickered.

"I don't know what you're trying to prove but…you're not going to win if we fight. I mean, I have a gun—"

"FIGHT ME ANYWAY!" I shouted. Then I popped him in the mouth.

He rubbed his jaw, almost like he'd been slapped instead of being punched, and he gave me a look.

"I don't want to fight you," Tomas said quickly. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Oh, we are _way_ beyond that. You and I are going to settle a disagreement the Gordon way. Now, put your hands up, and hit me back."

"Penguin wouldn't allow this—"

"Penguin isn't here. I said 'fight me' goddamn it!" I snarled.

Irritation had turned quickly to rage. If I had not been so angry, I would have laughed if I stood outside the box: I was wearing nothing more than a pair of black booty shorts and a gray nightshirt, holding up my hands to a man who easily saw over my head.

"Ma'am, I beg of you…" Tomas insisted, holding back.

"That's right," I taunted. " _Beg_. That's even better."

Tomas dodged out of the way when I tried to hit him again. He hopped onto the couch, and lifted a leg over the back so as to leap away from my swing.

"Okay, so you've had some disagreements with your brother—I'm sorry to hear that, but there must be a better" (he dodged my blow) "way of handling your anger issues than attacking your subordinates. We can talk about this, Miss Gordon, but you gotta stop—"

I struck the ball of my foot against his shin. He grunted.

"You know what's really infuriating?" I questioned as I strode to the kitchen. "It's when your brother and your boyfriend don't get along" (I grabbed a pan from the cabinet, and came back to him in the living room) "And they're both in competition with each other and **I** "(I hit Tomas' shoulder with the frying pan) " **AM STUCK** " (I struck the back of his neck) " **IN THE MIDDLE OF IT**!"

"Miss Gordon, stop!"

"Get the _fuck_ up—you're supposed to be my fucking guard and you're getting your ass beat!" I snarled, nudging my foot against his ribs.

"I'm not going to fight you—"

"Well, you better call your lawyer and draw up your will, because I'm sure as shit not going to stop until you **put** " (I kicked his ribs once) " **ME** " (twice) " **DOWN**!"

Tomas groaned, and moved to all fours, trying to crawl away.

"What is this—amateur hour?" I said to no one in particular.

"If I hurt you, Penguin will kill me!" Tomas cried.

"If you don't fight back, _I_ will kill you!" I shouted furiously.

"You're crazy!"

"Where the hell are you crawling off to!" I demanded.

I twisted the pan handle in my hand, gripping it tightly as I stormed after the crawling guard.

"A minute ago, you were ready to square off! Don't have the muscle to support your chops? You're going to act like a girl, let's hear you scream like one."

He screamed when I grabbed his mess of gelled hair; I kicked my foot between his legs, striking him square in the balls, and he squealed like a pig—goddamn, did that feel good! —When he was down, I just threw all my strength into hitting any body part I could reach. He thrashed underneath, screaming and crying.

All I saw was red. My vision blurred, and it wasn't until I felt my cheeks burn that I realized I was crying.

I wanted to be there for Jim, just as I was always there by Oswald's side. It pissed me off that Jim would just use Oswald like he did, and then pretend that he was better than me.

"You're not better than me," I snarled. Hearing myself say it just pissed me off more. " _You're not better than me_!"

"I'm not saying anything!" Tomas screamed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry—please!"

"FIGHT BACK!" I bellowed. "FUCKING **HIT** ME!"

I shoved his face into the carpet, and stood to my feet. My chest heaved up and down, my breathing, erratic. I rubbed my tear-stained face with the back of my hand, sniffling as I watched a giant like Tomas shrivel to the size of a fetus.

And I saw the damage I had done.

I'd broken his nose; it was bleeding profusely, the blood oozing into his open mouth as he sobbed; it drizzled onto the navy-blue carpet, staining it. His suit was disheveled, much like the untidy mess of hair; some of it fell into his face, matting to his forehead.

"A body guard," I scoffed, throwing the frying pan onto the kitchen table—it clattered with a 'clang'. "What good are you protecting anyone when you can't even protect _yourself_?"

Tomas unsteadily shifted to his knees as he looked at me.

"You're angry—I get it…with your brother—the treatment he's done to the both of you," he sobbed. "And with what happened with Maroni's men in the office…"

I glared at him.

"How the hell would you know how I feel about any of that?" I demanded harshly.

"I don't, I don't—but please, hear me out," Tomas pleaded, holding his hands up in front of him. "You're f-fighting me to get some retribution for what happened with Maroni's men…you want to get that control back, even when you're not—"

"I **am** in _fucking_ control!"

"That's why you're taking out your anger on me?" Tomas whispered. "I'm-I'm an easy target."

I snickered, "You're a foot taller than me and you weigh more than I do—you said so yourself."

"I'm your body guard, hired by Penguin. I can't hurt you even if I wanted to."

"'Even if you wanted to'?" I repeated darkly.

I approached him. He fearfully met my eyes.

"I just kicked your ass from the living room to the hallway with a fucking _frying pan_. You couldn't lay a hand on me _even_ if you tried." I drawled. "You're a waste of space, a pathetic loser. You're worthless, and you're _nothing_."

Tomas frowned and said quietly, "That's what you tell yourself, isn't it? You don't want to think that about yourself, but it's true, isn't it?"

I glared at him.

"I should put a bullet between your eyes _right_ now for saying that to me," I threatened.

He couldn't even stutter a response. He put his hands together and bowed in front of me. His hands touched my feet; he kissed the back of them for mercy, begging for my forgiveness.

Seeing him like this…

 _Fish made Oswald kiss_ her _feet and beg for her forgiveness…_

I was treating Tomas like Fish had treated Oswald.

I suddenly had this sudden need to throw up, to purge this feeling. My stomach tossed and turned unpleasantly, and I could feel it moving up to my throat.

He looked up at me.

"Get up." I whispered—I placed my hand on my stomach to calm the queasy feeling— "Go to the bathroom, clean yourself up."

"You're not going to kill me?"

"No." I muttered, shaking my head slowly. "Please…go do as I ask."

Confused, he nodded and stumbled into the bathroom.

I staggered into the kitchen, throwing my head over the sink as I started gagging.

 _You're worthless._ The hateful thoughts were back again. Always, they were there, stirring, but now they were coming full force. _You're nothing._

 _You hurt the people that swore to protect you._ Tomas...

 _You're no better than your brother…Fucking hypocrite._ No, I'm not— _Worthless. Nothing._

I grabbed the edge of the counter. Nothing was coming out. I just kept gagging. _You're not in control. You never will be._ I am in control…

"I _am_ in control," I chanted like it was a mantra, hoping the self-affirmations would take hold, but the gagging wouldn't stop.

 _You lost that control when Mack put his hands-_

"Stop…" I whimpered. "Please stop…"

I could still feel his fingers inside of me, his moans leaving his fat lips. The grating sound of his voice: " _I'm going to fuck you until you bleed…"_

"Stop, please…" I cried.

I could smell his breath and sweat: " _Then I'm going to shoot you…"_

I could still feel the fat head of his cock trying to make its way between my legs. His hands on my breasts, groping—his fat ass on my knees, keeping me pinned.

"Sylvia…"

A pair of hands touched my shoulders. I reeled back and elbowed whoever it was in their stomach. I quickly turned and saw Oswald groaning, holding his side. The front door was open until Butch, who had strolled inside shortly after checking both ends of the hall, closed it. I looked down at Oswald.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry…" I began.

Oswald straightened, and smiled (albeit in slighted pain).

"Don't worry about me," he reassured. "Are you all right?"

"No," I admitted.

My face was red; my eyes were blood shot from gagging into the sink, and my cheeks were stained with tears. He caressed my chin with two of his fingers, lifting it so I was urged to look into his eyes.

"What happened?" He expressed the familiar deep concern.

As if on cue, the bathroom door opened and Tomas stepped out, a towel wrapped around his lower half. He was sporting a black eye, the cuts on his face, and bruises were already forming on his chest and arms. Oswald took one look at him and he pulled a switchblade from his inner jacket pocket.

"What did you _do_!" Oswald demanded furiously.

He started towards Tomas who fretfully started running in the opposite direction.

"Want me to shoot him?" Butch offered.

"Yes—"

"No!" I protested.

I stood in the middle of the hallway, potentially blocking either of them from harming Tomas. Oswald looked at me, confused, and it slowly became one of suspicion.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" Oswald asked calmly, however his bubbling anger was just beneath the surface.

"He didn't do anything to me," I told Oswald quickly.

"Then why does he look like… _that_ ," Oswald said, gesturing to Tomas.

"I did it," I said softly.

Butch lowered his gun and said impressively, "Damn. Girl's got skill."

" _Shut up, Butch_ ," Oswald snapped, glaring at him. He turned to me: "What do you mean you did this?"

"I hit him," I explained, glancing over my shoulder to see Tomas peeping through a crack in the door. "I tried to make him fight me. He wouldn't. So, I…"

"Kicked his ass from here to Timbuktu," Butch finished humorously.

"BUTCH!" Oswald shouted, glaring at him once more. " _Go_ sit in the other room, _please._ "

Butch shrugged, unaffected, and walked in the direction of Tomas. Probably wanted to get his side of the story. Oswald took my wrist and gently pulled me into the living room; he gestured to the couch; I followed the silent order and sat down. He joined me.

"Tell me what happened," Oswald said, holding his hand out to me.

I handed him the newspaper regarding the headline of Flass' release. Oswald gave it a once-over before putting it back on the table nonchalantly.

"Is this a problem for you?" Oswald inquired.

"Not for me." I explained shakily. "I don't know what happened…I was just so pissed off. Jim and I had an argument at the hospital…"

"When you went to see Ms. Rubberdale," Oswald recalled.

"Yes. Jim was there, visiting a friend too."

"What was the argument about, if you don't mind me asking?" Oswald said patiently.

I said nothing at first, only looking at him like he wasn't really there. He took my hands into his, stroking the back of mine with his thumb.

"You can tell me anything," Oswald reassured.

"It'll sound stupid," I told him.

"Tell me anyway."

I bit my lower lip, seeing his eyes just burrow into mine. I was certain he could read my mind.

"I told him how I felt about him refusing to take your invitation to the opening of your club," I explained softly. "We had a disagreement in regards to hypocrisy. And I just flew off the handle."

Oswald licked his lower lip in thought, glancing at the television. He took the remote and turned it off, then looked at me pointedly.

"There's more to it, isn't there?" Oswald asked gently.

"Oz, I don't want to make you feel bad. I'd rather not…"

"Pigeon, look at me. Tell me what you need to tell me. We'll go from there."

I looked him in the eyes, and I felt my heart grow to the point of pain.

"Jim is mad because I went to you first after the incident in the office, with Maroni's men. He thinks that because he's my brother, I should have gone to him—but I felt more comfortable talking to you. I feel like I am trapped in the middle of some war, forced to choose sides. Jim won't accept us...but...when I talk to you, I don't feel guilty for what I have done, or judged by what I feel...especially when my ideas don't line themselves up with the legal system."

Oswald nodded slowly. He placed his hands on my own, looking down at them in thought as though he was trying to find the words to explain what he wanted to say. After a moment, he met my eyes.

"You know how I feel about you, Pet," Oswald said softly. "You know there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do in order to make sure you feel safe and protected. Detective Gordon _is_ your brother...I suppose he would be entitled to your friendship, but..."

"No one is entitled to anything of mine," I interrupted more harshly than I had intended. " _I_ choose my friends. _I chose_ the path I've taken. I love Jim, but I love you too, Ozzie, and I'm trying to maintain some type of balance, but I feel like he's making me choose; it's like I am slowly being ripped apart in every fucking direction. And I am trying to _be_ there for him…"

At first, Oswald was startled by the force of my comment—my sentences were running together, and I could feel the rage bubbling from my stomach, to my chest, and ringing in my ears.

"What good has it done me so far?" I asked. "I just give, and give, and give, and all he does in return is treat me like I'm nothing…"

"I doubt that those are his intentions," Oswald defended Jim.

"And the way he treats you," I continued, glaring at a freckle on my hand. "It just pisses me off and I want to hurt him—but I don't want to hurt him, but I kind of do—like I want to hurt everyone else that has ever hurt us: Falcone, Maroni, Fish! And I'm just— **ugh**!" I let out an exasperated, shrill snarl that sounded inhumane.

I stood suddenly, looking at the emptiness of the black television then turned to Oswald.

"Ever since the event with Maroni's men, I just feel angry _all the time_." I told him, my voice breaking. "I just want to hurt them—him—someone— _anyone_."

"Is that why you attacked Tomas?" Oswald said knowingly.

"I didn't expect him _not_ to fight back," I responded defensively. "He's taller than me—he's stronger than I am. He was _armed_ , he had a **gun** for crying out loud. He could have done anything he wanted to me!"

"I hired him to protect you," Oswald recited firmly, standing to his feet.

"He's more afraid of you than he was of me, that's for sure," I said resentfully. Then my heart fluttered unexpectedly as I smiled at him: "You were ready to hurt him when you thought he did something to me."

"Of course."

"You didn't even hesitate," I noticed. I smiled a little.

"If he disrespects you," he said softly. "He's disrespecting me. And I will not allow—"

I moved towards him and I pushed my mouth against his. At first, he didn't react—or maybe he was just too surprised _to_ react—but shortly after, he held my hips while I grabbed the lapels of his suit. Passion and ravenous hunger possessed me. I slipped my hand between us, and I started rubbing his cock through his pants.

"Sylvia—"

" _You can't talk me out of it this time_ ," I growled.

I bit his bottom lip, and raked my free hand down his back as I continued groping him between his legs. He hissed as my nails dug into his spine, but unaffected; his tongue slipped into my mouth, rubbing against my own.

I brought my lips to his ear, licking him and whispered, "I can tell how horny you're getting, Ozzie—I can feel your cock growing in my hand."

Oswald inhaled sharply as I bit his earlobe. He grabbed my hair and threw me forward.

"Get in the bedroom," Oswald ordered.

I stuck out my tongue: "Pfffft!"

* * *

I turned on my heel and ran into the bedroom. I was fired up, breathing hard already. The thought of having angry sex was already making me soaking wet; I could feel the excitement boiling within, flushing my neck, chest, and face with red heat. My back faced the doorway; I heard him come in, slamming the door. I began to turn my head.

"Eyes front, Pet."

The lights turned off suddenly. I turned around but Oswald grabbed a handful of my hair like he'd done so before and forced my head forward.

"I said 'eyes front'!"

He pulled me to him, my back against his chest.

"I've been waiting to do this since you told me about it," Oswald said huskily. The darkness of the room made me feel unbalanced, like I had a glass of wine, tipsy, and dazed.

"To do what—mm!"

Oswald yanked my hair, my neck craned, and my eyes darted up at the ceiling. Cold steel prodded my carotid, the point digging enough for me to gasp but not feel pain. It made me stand on my toes, instinctively trying to move away.

It was his switchblade that he held against my neck.

"Do you feel that?" Oswald asked softly.

"Yes..." I breathed.

My insides burned with sudden need.

"Do you feel this…?"

He pressed his erection between the back of my thighs, rolling his hips into my own.

"Yes." I mumbled.

I so wished that I was stripped bare, to feel his skin against mine. Flesh against flesh.

The knife slid carefully from my neck to my collar bone; his hand dipped into my shirt, and I felt the cold blade lightly graze my right nipple, circling the hardened peak.

Oswald roughly removed his hand out of my hair (pulling strands with it) and he placed it over my neck, forcing me to keep my eyes on the ceiling. My hands moved behind me, stiffly grasping the hem of his shirt (he'd taken his jacket off prior to stepping into the bedroom—smart…).

"You like this, don't you," Oswald drawled, his breath tickled my ear, his lips flush with the bottom length of my jaw.

"No," I murmured.

"No?" Oswald repeated. He smirked against my ear. "I think you are lying to me, Pet."

He placed the blade just underneath the spaghetti straps of my nightshirt, his fingers growing taut over the handle. I felt the straps fall down my shoulders and dangle in shreds as he cut them; He did the same with the other strap, and my shirt fell to the floor, exposing my bare breasts and stomach to the open air.

"Don't forget to breathe." Oswald reminded softly, kissing my shoulder.

I suddenly exhaled sharply. I'd been so caught up in the moment, I'd done just that.

I rubbed my thighs together, hoping to assuage the mild affliction between them, but it was of little help.

"Turn and look at me," he said, gesticulating with the knife.

His hand left my neck and I turned to look at him.

"Undress me."

The only light in the room was coming from the window, the moonlight creeping through the blinds. In its glow, I could see Oswald's eyes brightly shining at me, daring me to disobey, daring me to say 'no'. When I did nothing, he took it as a turn of defiance.

He uttered dangerously, "Do you really want to know what happens if you don't?"

I bit my bottom lip. Admittedly, _yes_ , I did want to know. But I cleared my throat and submissively started unbuttoning his vest, and then his shirt. I placed them neatly at the end of the bed. Then I unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants and boxers. He watched me, his lips parted, eyes glinting with dark pools of adoration.

"Good girl," Oswald praised. "Kneel down. Face the bed."

I stepped towards him. I wanted to see what he would do if I didn't obey him immediately, so I touched his lips with the pad of my thumb and then I kissed him gently. He reciprocated. I felt his hand touch my breasts, guiding from one to other, then ghosting over my stomach and between my legs. He dipped his fingers inside the front of my booty shorts, under the underwear and rubbed my clit with two of them in soft, teasing circles.

He placed soft kisses along the crook of my neck, setting fire to my flesh.

He rubbed my swollen nub between his fingers.

I let out a soft keen.

Then he stopped, and left me wanting more.

"Baby, please..."

"That was a little taste of punishment for not doing what you are told the first time. Kneel down, pigeon. And don't make me say it again."

My legs shook as I slowly knelt down; I faced the bed. He moved past me and sat on the edge, naked, looking down at me, like an emperor on a throne. He leaned forward, and gestured with the knife for me to come forward, clicking his tongue.

I felt my face burn with humiliation, but oh my god, was my body eating it up.

I started to stand.

"No. Don't walk." Oswald said sternly.

"How the fuck am I—"

"I don't want you to walk towards me." Oswald said, smirking. "I want you to crawl."

I let out an irritable sigh but I did as I was told. I crawled to him, then stood on my knees as I met him between his legs. He pressed the knife underneath my neck, just along my throat.

"You know what to do," Oswald said mischievously.

I protested (weakly, as I was looking forward to it more than ever).

"I am _not_ …"

He grabbed my hair and I winced, opening my mouth in pain. He took the opportunity, and forced my mouth onto his cock. I held onto the edge of the bed as he controlled the speed and rhythm, lifting his hips while also pushing my head down. I moaned, humming so he could feel the vibrations.

"Fuck..." Oswald mumbled.

I dug my nails into his bare thighs and he let out a gasp of pain which then turned into a pleasurable groan. He forced his cock deeper into my throat; I almost gagged.

"Come on, Pigeon," Oswald taunted. "I know you can take more than that."

He brushed his hands through my hair and out of my face. I glanced up at him, saw that smug little smile. I hollowed my cheeks, relaxed my throat, and swallowed him inch by inch.

"That's it. Yes, just like that...my good little whore…"

I was getting off on it: his profanity, his moans, his praise, and the way his voice just strained with the increase of his appetite. He shoved his cock inside my mouth one more time before pulling out, shoving me away from him.

"Strip," Oswald commanded.

I shakily stood to my feet, and yanked my shorts and panties off in a single go. He grabbed my arm, pulling me back to him.

He kissed me hard; I kissed him harder. He pulled on my hair; I pulled on his. He wrapped his hand around my throat, and pinned me on the bed. Seeing him above me, for all his pale complexion and the brightness of his eyes…so fucking forceful, so dominating—I wanted him—here and now.

But not without a fight.

I started thrashing against him, trying to escape.

"Stop," I said quietly.

Oswald chuckled, "Is that all you got?"

"You want me to scream?" I asked, momentarily breaking the fourth wall.

"I've seen you fight, Pet," Oswald said pointedly. "I know you can do so much better."

I felt the knife against my hip, and his cock between my legs, fully erect.

I shoved him away; he came right back. I kicked my legs, he pushed his cock against me, teasing my entrance with the head. I let out a needy whine.

"Get off me," I panted.

Oswald seemed pleased at my acting.

"You want this just as much as I do."

"I don't—"

It was so hard to pretend I didn't; he shoved his mouth onto mine; no invitation to be given, no permission to be granted. He was taking what was his. He rubbed my clit vigorously, then he slipped two fingers just along the entrance of my wet, swollen sex—teasing me. I still 'tried' escaping, moving my arms and legs—it wasn't hard; his ministrations were driving me crazy!

He licked my earlobe, murmuring, "Is Sylvia ready?"

"N-no..." I answered weakly.

"I think she is," Oswald insisted.

He curled his fingers inside of me and I damn near blacked out just from the sudden surge of ecstasy that accompanied it. My back arched, my toes curled, and I whimpered when he withdrew his fingers.

I needed him—fucking Christ, I needed him!

He sat up only for a moment.

I grinned mischievously, wrapping my fingers around his pulsing member, and stroking him. He sharply inhaled—I thought I had caught him in a weak moment, but it was a trap. He rolled me onto my stomach, and I gasped in surprise. His hand firmly clamped over my mouth, my eyes looked straight at the headboard in front of me. The sharp edge of the knife slid slowly up my back then settled against the side of my neck. I 'struggled' still, and he let out a dangerous, deep chuckle that nearly froze me in place.

"Fucking cock tease," Oswald hissed. "How do you want it, Pigeon?"

He separated my legs with his knees, pinning my arms beneath my own body. I was unable to move, unable to escape, his body weighing on mine—but with him, I had never felt freer. He didn't wait for an answer; that was the point. He slid his cock slowly into my aching sex, wedging tightly inside. The both of us moaned loudly.

"Nice and slow…" Oswald murmured lowly in my ear. "Don't fight it, my dear."

"Mmm…"

He thrust slowly inside, triggering every tender muscle, every sore, aching pressure point. My eyes grew heavy, closing as I just listened to his shallow breaths, his wanton echoes. He lowered his hand from my mouth to my neck and I was free to moan as well.

"Fuck, Oz…"

"You like that?" Oswald whispered. "Do you like my cock inside you..."

"Mm-hmm."

"I know _I_ do," He groaned.

I pushed my hips against him, and he snickered at my impatience. He kissed, nibbling, and licking where he bit. I let out a sharp, frustrated keen.

"Harder," I begged.

"What was that?"

"Fuck me _harder_." I pleaded.

"Is that what you really want?"

"I need it, baby, _please_ ," I whined. "Make it _hurt_."

Oswald said roughly, "You have _no_ idea what you're asking me to do."

"I do!" I snapped, feeling the sudden rage rise to the surface. "Now _fuck_ me like you **hate** me,goddamn it!"

I flung my hands up behind my head; one slapped his face. I even felt the sting within my palm. I thought I might have crossed a boundary there, but I was surprised when he shoved my face into the mattress, pulled my wrists behind my back, and kept them there, restraining me.

"Scream for me," He demanded before he rammed himself deep inside of me; I cried out.

He fucked me hard and fast; My knuckles clenched, turning white. Pain mixed with pleasure, shooting through every finger, every toe, and festering deep inside my stomach. He grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me up onto my knees, and rolled his hips into mine, plunging deeper—the knife was forgotten in the sheets. He released my arms in favor of digging his fingers into my sides, holding me firmly against him.

The bed creaked with the movement, the headboard ricocheting and slamming against the wall.

"Yes! Oh my god, yes…!" My high-pitched scream became lost in my gasp, my desperation for release, and need for more pain.

He raked his nails down my front, clawing my breasts and stomach; and I moaned aloud in delight. Oswald wrapped one hand around my neck, and pressed down on my carotids, avoiding my airway (again, smart). My breaths became short and hallow, the blood pounding inside my forehead; my ears were ringing, but I could still hear Oswald's unrestrained grunts and groans as he thrusted in and out of me. I reached behind, and raked my nails up his thighs; hearing him groan in response made my skin tingle.

My insides burst, throwing my body into a titillating convulsion. Oswald pulled out of me, and moved me on my back. He separated my legs with an effort as they were trying to close on their own accord. He pinned my arms down, and he thrusted inside my pussy, feeling every vibration, every seizing muscle holding desperately onto him.

He kissed my collar bone, right above where Fish had left her mark. And then he replaced it with his.

Oswald bit me, his teeth broke the skin. I let out a painful moan, but I barely could feel it for save the sharp pain before it all dulled into one tantalizing pleasurable wave. My response was what finally tilted him over the edge, and he stopped moving for only a few seconds, releasing himself inside of me.

Panting, hot, and sweaty, he lied on top of me for a few minutes as our breathing slowly returned to normal. He kissed my forehead, and I beamed up at him.

He groaned sorely as he moved on his back, mirroring me.

He sighed in content: "You're something else."

"Am I now?" I said, smirking at him. "I'm your partner, your lover, fiancée…what else could I be?"

"You are the human embodiment of a hurricane," Oswald said, smirking at me.

I kissed him tenderly on the lips; he returned it, and I tapped him on the nose. He looked at me curiously.

I said sweetly with a wink, "And don't you forget it."


	17. Barbara Feels Awkward

Chapter Seventeen: Barbara Feels Awkward

* * *

The last time I saw Barbara, she went out of town to get herself together. I figured a friendly face was what she needed after everything that had happened with Zsasz—and the fact that Jim was seeing Lee Thompkins.

I brought lunch, holding two salads in one hand, using the other to knock on the door, no one answered.

"Barbara, it's me!" I called.

The sound of movement came from behind the door. Then after a pause, it opened. She stood in the doorway, wearing a satin white robe over same colored shorts and shirt. She looked as though she might have just woken up from a long cat nap, or just slept in until the afternoon.

"Hey," I greeted. "I heard you were back in town, so…." (I held up the salads) "I brought lunch."

Barbara smiled a little, but she wasn't the same bright and chirpy woman. So far, she hadn't said a word. However, she stepped to the side, allowing my entry. When I came into the living room, I was startled to see that she was entertaining guests; namely, two children.

One was redheaded, the other had curly hair. Both looked as though they had come from living on the streets. I glanced at Barbara.

"I didn't know you had company, I could come back another time," I offered.

"No, don't worry," said Barbara, forcing a smile. "They kind of live with me. Ladies," (She addressed them) "This is Sylvia, Jim's sister. Sylvia….this is Ivy Pepper, and Selina Kyle."

Ivy Pepper didn't so much as acknowledge my presence—I didn't think she would. My brother and Harvey practically framed and killed her father. Hearing that I was in any relationship to Jim, the idea of friendship was quickly out the door.

Selina Kyle reminded me of a black cat. She was perched on the couch, feet tucked underneath her and her eyes bore through mine, sizing me up. I waved at them nonchalantly; they didn't wave back. I cleared my throat, looking at Barbara pointedly.

"We can talk in the kitchen," she said.

I followed her into the room, placing the salads on the table. She refilled her glass with vodka.

"So," she said listlessly. "How have you been?"

"Fine. How are you?"

"Fine." Barbara answered stoically. She took a sip from her glass, staring into it. "How's Jim?"

"Last I heard from him, he was doing all right. Otherwise, I don't know," I answered honestly. "He and I haven't spoken in a week or so."

"That doesn't sound like you two," Barbara noted, looking at me over the rim of her drink.

"We had an argument," I said, waving my hand to the air dismissively. "I'm right; he was wrong. He won't admit he's wrong, and he won't apologize. And I am petty enough these days that I won't call and apologize either."

Barbara sat her glass down on the table gingerly, and started opening her salad. She was definitely in a slump, the way she sluggishly moved. She looked at me indicatively, as I observed her.

"Is my company making you feel awkward?" I asked gently. "Because of the circumstance?"

"Awkward, no..." She murmured.

"No?" I repeated.

She smiled guiltily, admitting, "Okay. Maybe just a little."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No," she insisted. "It's nice seeing a familiar face."

She stood, moving to the refrigerator and took out a gallon of iced tea, a bottle of ranch dressing, and from the drawer, she withdrew two forks and napkins. All of these items, she placed on the table in front of us. Before sitting down, she placed a glass in front of me wordlessly.

For the longest time, we didn't speak. We just ate salad. It seemed like hours, but in real time, it had only been half an hour. Still, in retrospect, it was a long time to go without saying anything.

"I never thanked you properly," Barbara broke the silence, looking at me.

"For?"

"For coming to protect me," she clarified. "When that thing happened with Zsasz and Falcone. You came to protect me, and I never thanked you."

"You don't need to," I chuckled. "What is family for, you know?"

"I felt bad when those people hurt you," she continued, slowly chewing on a crouton.

"Sticks and stones," I reassured. "In time, everything heals."

"Does it?"

"It doesn't seem like it," I told her. "But it does. Every day, you hurt a little less—and I'm not just talking about broken bones."

Barbara frowned.

"Jim found someone else," she whispered, glancing sadly at me. "I saw him kissing her in the locker room."

"Did you tell him?"

"No," Barbara said, shaking her head. "I just left. What could I have said?"

I couldn't answer the question. She finished her salad, and drank a whole glass of tea. I did the same.

"So who are the kids?" I asked, gesturing to the living room.

"They were living here while I was gone," said Barbara humorously. "I came home; they were here. I don't mind the company. They normally come and go as they please."

"Well, at least you're socializing. That's a step in the right direction."

Barbara smiled in spite of herself, saying, "Speaking of socializing, I was wondering if you wanted to be my plus one to this charity gala."

"Interesting segue," I noted.

Barbara strode into the living room suddenly then came back to the kitchen, placing an invitation in front of me. It was addressed to her.

"You're going to this?" I asked incredulously.

"It's good for the gallery," Barbara explained.

"What day of the week does this fall on?"

"A Friday."

I placed the invitation in front of her as she sat down, and smiled.

"I have a prior engagement," I told her.

"Where?"

"I sing at 'Oswald's' Friday evenings," I informed.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"I didn't know you could sing," said Barbara, smirking.

"I can. It has just taken several years for me to find my way out of a dark hole," I said smoothly. "I only sing a few songs, then I hunker down for the next six days in my wonderful cozy comfort zone."

"Sounds like you're doing well," said Barbara, smiling. "I'm glad."

"Are you really?" I asked, reclining back in my seat.

Barbara blinked; she appeared taken aback. Her stony expression didn't go unnoticed by me. Her voice was monotonous, depressed. I didn't expect anything different from a woman who had been through what she'd gone through, only to come back home and realize that her love life had fallen apart while she had been away.

My success as an entertainer (half-comedic, half-singer) had only seemed to harden her expression. Seeing as I called her out on it, Barbara cleared her throat uncomfortably, shifting as such in her chair.

"We have history, you and me," Barbara said quietly. "You have always been there for me when I needed you—you sacrificed your well-being so you could keep me safe from people like Falcone."

"You're feeding around the bush," I told her pointedly. "What are you really wanting to say?"

Barbara met my eyes.

"You have no idea," she said quietly, "how I feel."

"I'm pretty sure I can guess," I protested lightly. "You left Gotham to put your priorities in check, to get your life together. Then when you come back home, you realize that your love life has been falling apart. You went to live with your parents for a while, right?"

Barbara frowned, and once more the hardened expression returned.

"How did that work out for you?" I asked.

"Not well," said Barbara. "They let me stay but...it's like talking to a wall when it comes to them. They just hear me, they don't listen."

"Well, then talk to me," I offered, holding my hand out to her encouragingly. "I'll listen."

"You were right," Barbara admitted suddenly, looking at me coolly. "It _is_ awkward. You're Jim's sister."

"You want to go on a man-bashing rant, I'll go along with you," I offered in good humor, smirking. "You can tell me how much Jim sucks; I will pour the wine, we'll give toast to the terrible things our exes have done to us in the past, and we'll go from there. Just because you're not with Jim doesn't mean our friendship changes."

Barbara said quietly, "I wish that were true."

I interlaced my fingers together on the table. She looked at me apologetically, like she didn't want to do what I was certain she would. She wanted to cut off ties, to end what we had due to the awkwardness of Jim now being her ex. I couldn't blame her, really. But I would be lying if I denied I was a little offended.

"If my company makes you feel awkward," I said slowly, "Then why on earth would you ask me to go to this charity ball as your plus-one?"

"It was a thought," muttered Barbara.

"An ice breaker?" I suggested.

"I know, it was stupid. I'm sorry."

I stood to my feet, wiped my mouth with the napkin provided and threw my salad in the trash. I placed my hands on the back of the chair, scooting it under the table. She watched me reproachfully; the way she looked at me, it's like I might as well had slapped her with a phone book.

"You'll cut ties with me," I told her gently, "To try and mend your broken heart. That's fine; I understand. But just so you know, if you need to talk to someone, I'm only a phone call away."

"Thanks," she whispered.

"Any time," I responded sincerely.

"Thanks for lunch," she returned.

"Again—anytime."

I walked into the living room; the girls looked at me curiously. I didn't bother telling them bye; I was certain they wouldn't say it back.

XxXxXx

Tiffany was my one-woman barmaid. She had a knack for mixing drinks, and she kept tab of everyone who had more than enough drinks for the evening before cutting them off. Since being released from the hospital, it was as though the car accident had made her more assertive, more confident in her own skin.

I strode into the club, thinking of Barbara and how she would cope with the break-up. Tiffany pulled me out of my reverie, and she was waving at me. Noticing her, I sat at a pew in front of her.

"You're looking better," I noted.

"So much better," Tiffany answered happily. "Thanks again for giving me this job; I've never been happier."

"Who knew anyone would be happy enough to be a bartender," I said incredulously, watching her move about with such grace.

She sincerely looked happy.

"How's everything in general?" I asked.

"It's been steady," Tiffany answered. "Not much has been going on. Not one fight has broken out though; I'm kind of surprised. When you said that there were gangsters here, I thought maybe I'd be able to see a little rough-housing from time to time."

I chuckled, "Give it time. Wait for the holidays. Have you seen Penguin?"

Tiffany lifted her eyes over my shoulder; I followed her gaze.

Oswald was sitting at a table, admiring a bottle of Madre Di Dios. I came up from behind him, rubbing his shoulder; he glanced up, smiling when he saw me, and we kissed briefly before I took a seat in front of him.

"Do I even want to know ?" I said, gesturing to the bottle.

Secretively, Oswald replied, "Do you?"

I was just about to inquire before Oswald looked over my shoulder; I turned in my seat and couldn't help but roll my eyes when I saw Jim and Harvey strolling into the room. Contrary to my mood, Oswald had a different approach; he stood, meeting them.

"Gentlemen," he greeted politely. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you?"

"Good afternoon, Penguin," Jim greeted just as politely, then seeing me, he nodded, "Sylvia."

"Long time, no see," I returned coolly.

Oswald gestured for Jim to sit; I scooted my chair so as to make room for him.

"We need help finding out what Commissioner Loeb is hiding," Jim stated factually.

"Straight to the point," I said, placing my chin in my hand. "Why would I expect anything different?"

Oswald didn't hide the sly smile that came from my sarcastic comment. However, he did acknowledge Jim's request.

"You do realize what you are asking me to do? If Don Falcone is working with Commissioner Loeb to keep this trove of secrets hidden and I help you uncover them...I would be betraying my patron," Oswald said calmly.

"That's right," Jim acknowledged the risk.

"If he found out," Oswald continued, "he would be very angry to say the least."

Harvey interrupted impatiently, "Enough with the heming and hawing, are you gonna help us or not?"

Oswald seemed to tighten the hold of his patience whereas I wanted to cluck Harvey in the face for using that sort of tone. After all, they'd come here asking for _his_ help—not the other way around.

"Let's say for argument sake, I could help you," said Oswald hypothetically. "What's in it for me?"

"You're fucking his sister," Harvey interjected cynically, "that's not enough?"

Jim looked at Harvey with a major expression of 'what the fuck', and I mirrored him. Oswald looked just as surprised with the outburst.

"What?" Harvey questioned carelessly. "He _is_."

"Wow," I muttered, getting to my feet. "I can obviously see that the _men_ are talking, so I'm just going to leave now before I get the urge to punch a certain someone in the face. Excuse me."

I patted Oswald on his forearm, glared at Jim and Harvey, and then headed up on the stage to make sure the performers of the night had everything they needed.

It looked like it was going to be something of a magic show with two women dressed in risque black and gray shimmering costumes; the magician (if one called him that) wore a pink and lilac suit. On an end table was a curious box and he was sticking half-swords through the top and it would slide through the bottom. I didn't dare imagine what would be inside the box. I figured I would keep all of that a mystery.

After speaking to the magician, he said all they would need was for someone to dim the lights. 'All part of the illusion', they said. Who was I to disagree with them?

I hopped off the stage, catching Henry on the way.

"How's the shift looking tonight?" I asked.

"We're down one person," Henry answered. "Rick isn't coming."

"Rick..."

"The other waiter," Henry reminded.

"Did he say why?" I asked.

"No...but he called and said he just wasn't coming in. Sounded like he was sick on the phone," Henry informed, rolling his eyes. "Bet you he's just hung over—it wouldn't be the first time this week."

"Thanks for telling me. Anything else?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Everything else has been pretty calm around here."

If everything went according to plan, we would have a nice, easy night. But in Gotham, did things ever really go according to plan—I mean, seriously. Henry bowed slightly in my direction after I dismissed him; I heard footsteps approaching, and I turned to see Oswald.

Jim and Harvey were waiting by the front door.

"Are they kidnapping you?" I asked, half-serious.

"We're taking a little road trip, shouldn't take long," Oswald informed softly.

"You're going to help them? What if Falcone finds out?"

"Not to worry, I have it all taken care of," Oswald reassured, swiftly kissing my cheek. "I'll be back before nightfall."

He left shortly, following my brother and Harvey out the door.

At least I knew who I'd be going to if he didn't come back.


	18. Maroni Is A Bastard

Chapter Eighteen: Maroni is a Bastard

* * *

A/N: Because Maroni really is a frickin' bastard...

* * *

The last time Jim and I had an actual discussion was back at the hospital. Even after Oswald helped Jim uncover what Commissioner Loeb was hiding (whatever that was), I hadn't heard from my brother for several days. I could have been the bigger person, called him up, and told him that this whole stupid fight was petty…but unfortunately, he and I shared the same Gordon DNA and I was just as stubborn.

Despite the sibling rivalry, I noticed just how easier my life was without Jim butting into everything I was doing. Normally, he would question my antics, what I was doing, where I was going, and it would unnerve me. Without him being so concerned, I wasn't sure if this was better.

He wasn't the focus of my life, thankfully. Otherwise, it would have driven me bat shit crazy.

From Monday to Friday, I worked among the staff, filling in for shifts as a waitress or bartender, and I sang on Friday evenings. Every now and then, Oswald would leave the club, leaving me in charge.

He left the other, saying that he needed to speak to a barmaid about obtaining her diner, operating strictly as a silent partner. Gabe had gone with Oswald to this specific diner; according to him, it wasn't worth a nickel.

The club was open, and we were running relatively steady.

Oswald's mother, Gertrude, was doing her little swaying dance to the siren's song. She at least stood out of ear shot. I kept my eye on her just in case someone tried to hit on Momma Cobblepot. Let's see someone try to put the moves on her while I was on guard.

"I'd just go along with it, Gabriel," I said carelessly as I placed a bottle of beer in front of him.

"This diner is not going to make any money," said Gabe, looking at me.

"Does it look that bad?" I giggled, sitting across from him at the table.

"It's like something you'd see from that movie, 'Road House'. Only worse," Gabe muttered; he twisted and popped off the cap of his beer, took a long swig, and sat it down none too gently (not that he was angry; he was just a brusque of a guy).

"Dingy, huh?"

"Yeah," said Gabe, smirking. "It's been fun though."

"How so?"

"This girl," he chuckled. "The barmaid's daughter...she got swept off her feet by some guitar player. Won't come home. Barmaid ain't interested in money—she wants the kid back home. So I find the guy, tie him up, and Boss tells me to cut his fingers off."

"Sound about right," I stated, unaffected by this. "Guitar player without fingers doesn't have much to offer a classy woman."

"Did he tell you why he wants the diner?" asked Gabe mysteriously.

"One can only guess," I sighed.

"He said he's gonna kill Maroni in that diner."

"He's ambitious."

"You're not worried?"

I quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward saying, "Should I be?"  
Gabe chuckled, "You know, most of the fellas here can't understand why you're so calm all the time. You just go along with whatever the Boss does, don't you?"

"Pretty much," I responded smoothly.

"Does it bother you?" Gabe asked curiously.

"Does what bother me?"

"Him being out all the time," he said quietly. "You're pretty much running this night club by yourself, what with him running around and plotting against the bigger bosses."

I smirked, and sat back in my chair.

"Gabe, were you going to ask me whether or not I get lonely?"

He shrugged, preferring to neither confirm nor deny it.

I drank from my glass of sweet tea, running my tongue across my teeth.

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

Gabe shrugged one shoulder, tapping the surface of the table with his finger tips to a tune that I didn't recognize as he said, "Just curious. I was thinking the other day, I don't know much about you. We've worked together for Maroni—"

"— _You_ worked for Maroni," I reminded. "I never claimed to be working for that hothead. Besides what is there to know?"

"I don't know. Like the small things…"

"For example?"

"What's your favorite color?"

"Purple," I answered without hesitation. "What's yours?"

"Red," Gabe replied with a small smile.

"There," I said, tapping the table. "Now you know something about _me_. And I know something about _you_. We're just getting closer every day."

I watched as several people came into the club. Most of them were partnered up with someone; no one seemed to come to this place alone, and if they did, they had every intention of not leaving the club the same way.

A woman in a bright shiny, glittering white dress stood at the center stage, singing some odd lullaby. The red spot lights hanging above the stage brightened; and a disco ball above my head swiveled slowly. Refracted light bounced on and off the walls. After the newcomers ordered their drinks, some slow danced in the middle of the floor.

"Looks like things are picking up," Gabe said nonchalantly.

"Looks like it," I agreed.

An Irishman wearing a light brown suede jacket approached the table. He didn't seem like he had come over to have a little chat; it looked like he had something to say. I stood to my feet, smiling politely.

"I have a meeting with Penguin," he stated gruffly.

"Well, good for you," I greeted sarcastically. "Do you want a gold star?"

He sent me an odd look like it was the worst thing ever that I didn't know who he was (and I didn't), then he appeared offended when I still didn't recognize him. Just seconds within us meeting, Oswald popped up from behind me, his hand on the small of my back.

I gesticulated to the grumpy man in front of me, "Oz, is this a friend of yours?"

"A business associate," he corrected kindly. "And not a second too late. Punctual as ever!"

"Businessman with a suitcase or businessman with a gun?"

"The latter," Oswald replied shortly.

"Go figure," I said, glaring at the Irishman. "A businessman with a suitcase would have learned some fucking manners."

Oswald gestured for the Irishman to step to the side so they could speak; after a minute or two, Oswald pointed to the balcony above where they would be able to speak more privately. The man in question nodded and then went about his merry way, heading up to the balcony. I looked at Oswald expectantly.

"Do I want to know?" I asked.

"I'll explain later," Oswald promised.

"Mmm."

He caressed my cheek and kissed my forehead. Shortly after, he was pulled to the side by his mother.

"You promised you'd dance with me," Gertrude reminded happily.

"And I will," Oswald reassured. "Just as soon as I finish with that gentleman up there."

"Who knew running a nightclub would be so much work," Gertrude cooed.

She let him off the hook. He then met with the Irishman, who was eyeing me from the balcony. I met his gaze, unblinkingly. After a moment, the man dropped the stare and looked elsewhere. I smirked at Gabe, who pretended not to smile.

My phone started vibrating. I stood and pulled it out of the back pocket of my jeans.

"I better take this," I told Gabe; he nodded, and waved his hands for me to go ahead.

I slipped out of the club, standing in the back alley way. It smelled like rainwater and sewage outside, but it was a lot quieter out here than in there.

I answered the phone: "Jim, you better have a _damn_ good reason for calling me after not talking to me for days!"

"Sylvia, don't talk. Listen."

There was that worried sound in his voice; the angry protective growl was all too recognizable.

"For once—" I began furiously, but he cut me off.

"Vee, I said _listen_. Your life is in danger, you need to get out of Gotham."

"My life is always in danger," I muttered more to myself than anyone in particular, especially to Jim. "What makes this time any different?"

"Where are you right now?"

"I'm at the club—where else would I be?" I responded. "Why?"

"You need to go home," Jim instructed firmly, "pack what you need for a few weeks, grab the first train out of Gotham, and stay gone until all of this is over."

"Until _what_ is over? What have you gotten into this time?"

"I've been investigating this serial killer...They call him the Don Juan Killer, the Ogre—he kills the loved ones of any cop that investigates him."

"Then shouldn't you be protecting Lee?" I reminded him callously.

"She's not leaving," said Jim.

"Well, neither am I."

"Vee—"

"No, James," I retorted harshly. "I am _not_ leaving Gotham. This serial killer isn't even going to _dare_ touch me. Now, if it makes you feel any better, I will go home where I am not in the open and easily accessible, but I am _not_ leaving."

I started walking out of the alley, heading to my car.

"Avoid any dark cars—he drives one," Jim continued.

"This is Gotham," I said sardonically, "everyone has a fucking dark-colored car; the only vehicles that aren't dark is the weird ice cream truck with tinted windows that has a tear-stained mattress in the back."

I sat in the driver's seat, locking my doors just in case someone were to pop up and tell me they were this Ogre.

"I'm glad you're finding humor in this," Jim said sarcastically.

"You don't speak to me for _days_. And the first time you talk to me after all this time is to tell me that my life is in danger," I retorted. "I'd keep the judgment out of your tone if I were you. Speaking of which, apology accepted…jackass."

"Just get home, lock the doors." Jim ordered. "Make sure you stay there, at least for the night."

"I have a life outside of your mayhem, you know."

"Just do as I say, please?"

"Fine," I sighed heavily. "I'm going, I'm going. Do you want me to call you later or…"

"Just get home, Vee."

"Will do."

"Vee!"

"I'm still here, no need to yell," I chided. "My ears will go before _I_ do."

"I _am_ sorry," Jim said softly. "I should have apologized before, but…anyway, I love you. I just want you to be safe."

"Wow, it only took a serial killer to get you to admit when you're wrong," I snickered. "I'm going now. I love you too."

We hung up. I started the car, and headed back home. I figured Oswald would put two-and-two together when I didn't come back from talking on the phone. It seemed customary that he would be privy to my coming and going whenever Jim was a part of my life.

Per my agreement with my wonderful, protective brother, I locked all the doors and windows. Tomas had long since been gone—he couldn't face me after getting his ass kicked. With Oswald's life pardoned and the agreement settled between Falcone and Maroni, it was safe to assume that as far as _my_ life was concerned, Maroni would spare mine as well. So there hadn't been a need to replace the guard. But just when I thought the chaos was over, this Ogre guy had to start making threats.

Assuming he was even aware that Jim _had_ a sister. He seemed to keep that fact of his life under lock and key.

I sat on the couch, watching the news with the curtains drawn and the blinds closed. I thought the days of hunkering down inside my home had ended when my father died in the car accident, but then Jim became a police officer and it had started all over again. Hiding from the gangsters, hiding from the murderers and rapists—after a while, it all became mundane.

Three hours had passed since I had left the club. My phone started ringing and it nearly gave me a heart attack. I answered on the third ring: "Hey."

Jim's voice returned: "Hey back. Are you home?"

"Of course," I responded casually. "Just, you know, waiting for the apocalypse."

"Ha. You're hilarious."

"All I need is a blanket fort," I joked. "Some cheesy horror movies, a bag of popcorn—brings back the old days, right?"

"Except you're not trying to steal my gummy bears," Jim added.

"Well, if I'm being honest, you never could finish the whole bag. Wimp."

I heard him laughing on the other line, and it made me smile. I had missed these talks, just talking about old times when we were kids. Back when things weren't so messy.

I held the phone between my shoulder and crook of my neck as I continued eating my dinner: chicken sandwich with fries. A dinner fit for a Queen.

"How's Lee?" I asked conversationally.

"Working," Jim answered.

"How is she liking the Medical Examiner work?"

"It keeps her busy," he said with a low chuckle, "but she seems to enjoy it."

"And how's Harvey?"

"Lackadaisical."

"Go figure," I muttered.

"I know, right?" Jim replied, letting out a snicker of his own.

"How are _you_?"

"Tired."

"Have you been sleeping any?"

"Now you sound like Lee," Jim noted with a tone of annoyance.

"Well, I can't imagine you are," I said factually. "You're running around, trying to find this Ogre guy. I guess he's not fooling around, huh? Has he contacted you?"

"Yeah."

"Did you trace him?"

Gritting his teeth, Jim answered, "Not enough feedback."

"Well, it makes sense," I said, mouthful of fries. "He's been doing this to cops for how many years, right? He's figured out the system by now."

"Mm-hmm."

There was a knock at the door. It was quiet at first, then it escalated the longer I waited.

"Vee?"

"Shh. Someone's at the door."

"Don't answer it."

"Jim, I have to answer it," I said curtly. "It may be important."

"Just keep me on the line, would you?"

"So be it. If it keeps you from yelling in my ear again, fine." I muttered.

I placed my plate of sandwich and fries on the coffee table, wiping my hands on my robe before I stood. As promised, I kept the phone by my ear, and slowly opened the door.

Standing in front of me was Oswald, who looked as though he had been crying.

"Jim, I'll have to call you back."

"Is it him?"

"No, it's someone else." I answered vaguely. "I'll call you back." I hung up the phone, and opened the door completely. "Oswald?"

He came inside wordlessly, and I closed and locked the door after he did. He sat on the couch, knees bent, his elbows atop them as he clasped his hands together tightly. He was trying to hold himself together, but the more he tried, the more fragile he appeared. I bit the inside of my cheek, approaching him.

I kept my voice soft and soothing.

"Oswald, what happened?" I asked.

"Maroni…" Oswald responded finally after a moment's hesitation; his voice shook, and his eyes glowered in hatred. "He told Mother…everything."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, and licked my lips uncertainly. How could Maroni tell Gertrude anything and she believe him? She barely knew him; and she raised Oswald herself. But seeing the way he was slowly becoming undone—I figured Gertrude must have confronted him. Whatever the result, it didn't seem to help the matter any.

I joined him in the couch, holding my arms out. He moved into my embrace. He laid his head on my lap, his arms wrapped around my knees. Oswald's shoulders shook as he silently cried. Just seeing him like this, so devastated—it filled my heart with rage and hatred towards Maroni. The one innocent and saintly aspect of Oswald's life was his mother, after all.

I rubbed his shoulder, and combed my fingers gently through his hair and off his face.

"Shh, it's okay, baby," I whispered.

"I'm going to kill him," Oswald said shakily.

"I have no doubt about that." I reassured. "I'm guessing that's what the Irishman was there for, hm?"

"Yes."

"Will he do it?" I asked softly.

"Yes. They hate Maroni almost as much as I do." Oswald said coldly.

"Glad to hear it; Maroni's a bastard," Is there anything I can do?"

He sat up, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand as he faced me. He sniffled, and then he cleared his throat. He seemed to have gathered himself together pretty quick.

"What do you want to do?" He asked.

I smirked saying, "Honestly, if given the chance, I'd slit the fucker's throat, and deck the halls with his bowels, but that's just me."

Oswald let out a small snicker, "You always know just what to say."

"It's the highlight of my day." I responded lovingly. I took a fry from my plate and offered it to him: "Want one?"

"I'm not hungry," Oswald said quietly.

"I can make you something if you want."

"I'm a grown man, I can make my own dinner."

"I know you _can_. But I like doing it," I offered, getting to my feet.

Oswald looked around the apartment, noticing the lack of light.

"Why is it dark in here?" He questioned.

I walked to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. The light from the fridge nearly blinded me and I squinted my eyes when I closed it, hoping they would adjust quicker. Back in the living room, I placed a bottle of chardonnay on the table and two glasses.

"Jim called me," I said cynically. "Told me that this serial killer would be after me."

And Oswald was pissed again. I stopped him before he could react, putting my hand over his.

"It's fine," I said quickly. "I don't think this person is after _me_. He seems like the type to try and cut the girlfriend before he goes after the sister. But just to appease him, I told Jim I would hide out here for the rest of the day, and see what happens the day after."

"And when were you going to tell me this?" Oswald asked coolly.

"You were busy with the Irishman," I said carelessly. "And I didn't think there was much to fuss about. This Ogre guy, the 'Don Juan Killer' as the papers call him...I don't see him as a threat."

"Are you sure that's not your genetics talking?" Oswald remarked sarcastically.

"I'm pretty sure it is," I sighed, pouring the Chardonnay in both glasses. "But I can't afford to know for sure."

Oswald scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't suppress the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Someone endangers your life, you drink wine and watch bad movies," Oswald said ironically. "But god forbid someone greets you without saying 'hello'."

"It's common courtesy, babe," I retorted defensively. "You don't just _walk_ up to someone you've never met and say 'I'm here to see Penguin'. That's fucking rude. I mean, I _know_ I grew up with a brusque family, but damn, people need to remember their manners."

"In his defense, he didn't know who you were," Oswald pointed out.

"That doesn't matter," I persisted. "I don't care if I am a bum living on the streets or the owner of Buckingham Palace, respect goes both ways."

"You certainly have your priorities in order," Oswald commented.

I took a sip from my glass: "Damn straight."


	19. To Start A War

Chapter Nineteen: To Start A War

After the twenty-four hours had passed, I was back at work. I gave Tiffany the day off, took her shift as the bartender. I collected all the empty glasses left from the trickling patrons and wiped the counter, humming to myself. Earlier in the morning, Butch had walked past me, nodding in my direction, holding what appeared to be a suitcase before leaving the building.

The custodians came in, swept and mopped, dusted and vacuumed. The day was slow, but I didn't mind the quiet. Oswald sat on a stool at the bar, smiling at me. I folded my arms in front of me, leaning forward on the counter.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"Fair," he answered. "How was yours, my little barmaid?"

"Slow," I replied. "I don't mind it though."

"Where's Rubberdale?"

"I gave her the day off." I said smoothly. "Figured you wouldn't mind. Or notice."

Oswald scoffed, "Meaning what exactly?"

"You've been living inside your head, Ozzie," I whispered playfully. "I've seen you daydreaming, thinking of all the ways you'd kill the don. Still going with the diner thing?"

"I haven't changed my mind," Oswald reassured.

"I still prefer my idea."

"I do too," he admitted. "It's a good idea, but too messy to be practical."

I straightened, and pretended I was offended saying, "Well, _excuse_ me, Mr. Penguin. I didn't realize we were talking practicality."

Oswald chuckled in response.

"All joking aside," I said softly, "Maroni will strip-search those men you've hired."

"You watched Butch leave, didn't you?" Oswald said mischievously. "He's putting the guns in place."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you? You're a clever man, but then again, I already knew that." I stated.

"Flattery will get you places, Pigeon." Oswald teased. "Are you trying to get a promotion?"

"It's not flattery if it's true," I said, winking at him. "And I can think of far more enticing things to do to you for a promotion; it doesn't involve such pretty words."

Oswald smirked, saying, "You're in a flirtatious mood."

"I've had a good day," I explained, holding my hand out indicatively to the club. "Not one single person tried to hit on me, _and_ one sweet old lady gave me a ten-dollar tip. Now if that is not a good day, I don't know what is."

"You're not a hard woman to please, are you, Pidge?"

"I'm low maintenance," I agreed, giving him a crooked smile.

I leaned over the counter and he met me halfway in a small, short kiss. He touched my face, caressing my jaw. His tongue pressed against my bottom lip; I parted them, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

"If this goes any further, I'll have to pull you over this counter," I murmured.

Butch came through the front door and rounded the bar, immediately ruining the mood. Oswald turned a bright shade of pink; Personally, I would have still acted on my last spoken thought regardless if Butch was present. But I digressed.

"I put the pistol under the bar, the shot gun under the Juke," Butch reported. He then gathered that he interrupted something and said awkwardly, "Should I…?"

"No, stay," I insisted. "You already ruined the mood."

Butch cleared his throat adding, "All Conner's gotta do is get to them."

Oswald said happily, "The day is finally here. Maroni—"

And once again, we were cut off. But this time, it was Jim storming inside the club. On a mission, as always, he approached Oswald. Butch and I exchanged apathetic glances; the former took a seat behind Oswald while I remained standing.

"Sylvia," Jim greeted dutifully.

"Hey, I said I was going to wait more than a day," I reminded quickly. "I kept my word."

"I'm not here about that," Jim responded briskly. To Oswald, he said, "I need to know where the Foxglove is and I need an invitation."

Oswald responded humorously, "Well, _someone's_ in a mood."

"Can you help me out? Yes or no?" Jim questioned flatly.

"Jim, I do so love our give-and-take relationship, but it's starting to feel a bit one-sided." Oswald said pointedly.

Jim acknowledged my still-ever-bearing presence and said, "Fine. I'll owe you a favor."

Oswald reminded, "You already do."

I raised my eyebrows, looking at Jim, saying, "You _do_?"

"I do—the thing with Loeb," Jim answered me quickly; then he ignored me once more and said to Oswald, "Then I'll owe you another one."

Oswald gave him a look.

"Cards on the table? The Foxglove makes a lot of money for some very important people—" Oswald began but he was shortly cut off.

Jim grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off the stool. When Butch reacted, Jim then pulled out his gun and aimed it at him.

"James!" I scolded.

"Shut up, Vee." Jim hissed, glowering at me before turning it on Oswald: "You think you know who I am. What I am capable of? You have no idea."

Oswald said calmly (albeit shakily): "Today is an important day for me. So I will accommodate your request. But, detective, mark my words. You owe me a _big_ favor."

Jim chuckled and let him go; Oswald furiously straightened his suit from where he'd been grabbed and Butch stood down.

"Wait here," Oswald instructed firmly. "I'm going to make a few calls."

"Sure," Jim said, watching him.

Oswald moved to a different room. Butch looked at me wearily.

"Go, please." I requested. He did as I asked. I turned to Jim. "For fuck's sake, Jim, why can't you just be _fucking_ polite to him?"

Jim growled, "Do you ever stop defending him?"

" _Defending_ _him_?" I exclaimed. "You literally stormed into his club and _threatened_ him!"

"You don't know what's at stake, Vee."

"Tell me then," I ordered. "While you're at it, tell me why you're being such an ass."

"I like being an ass," Jim said darkly. "It gives me a reason to smile in the morning."

"What the hell is the matter with you?" I questioned coldly. "You were all good-humored the last time we spoke, and then you come into the building like you're going on a manhunt. You put a man at gunpoint for crying out loud."

Jim placed his hands on the counter; I mirrored him.

"The Ogre has Barbara," Jim spoke through gritted teeth.

My temper extinguished and I frowned.

"How long has she been with him?"

"I don't know," said Jim resentfully. "If anything happens to her, it's my fault."

"Probably," I sighed.

Jim snarled, "Wow, Vee. Thanks for that."

"What?" I said apathetically. "You know better than to come to me for a pity vote."

"Is it possible that you've become bitchier over the past year?" Jim asked with genuine curiosity.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Yes?"

"Well, there's your answer," I said, slapping my hand on the counter. "I'm a nice lady when you're _not threatening my fiance_ or the peaceful sanctity that is my life. Besides, why are you even pursuing this guy if he's going after the people you love? Why hasn't anyone caught him before?"

"No one has pursued him _be_ _cause_ he goes after the loved ones of anyone that investigates him—Vee, I told you this over the phone!"

"Don't you fucking _snap_ at me, that's fucking rude," I responded coldly.

Jim continued, "It's been the GCPD's dirty secret, according to Harvey."

"Ooh, the GCPD has a dirty secret. Stop the press," I said sarcastically. "So the police put it in the cold case files because no one wants their family murdered in their sleep. How did _you_ come across it?"

"One of the younger officers asked me to look into it," Jim explained—for what it was worth, the volume of his voice had lowered. "After talking with the others, it was Commissioner Loeb that put him up to it. He knows I won't let a killer go free."

"The young officer?"

"No," Jim said irritably. "Loeb. He wants to see me fail."

"Well, let's look it at this objectively, yeah?" I said as I cleaned a glass with my rag. "You either A) bite the bullet and accept the fact that Commissioner Loeb is a prick and he's looking to see you fail, and then move on with your life, and your lady love, Lee, can stay alive. And Barbara too, if you asked the Ogre to spare her. Or B) Continue pursuing this mysterious Casanova bastard, sacrifice Barbara and Lee, and possibly myself because of your damnable pride."

Jim glared daggers.

I placed the glass in front of me, admiring its shiny value.

"For you, it's a lose-lose, Jimmy," I spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. "If you don't go after the Ogre, Loeb wins. If you do go after him, Loeb wins."

"I can't stop pursuing him," Jim said coldly. "He _has_ Barbara."

"Maybe he genuinely loves her?" I suggested skeptically. "Maybe he doesn't want to hurt her. But while you persist, the Ogre just keeps getting more pissed off. That's what you're telling me. My solution would be to simply back the fuck off, but we both know you're too stubborn to do that."

Jim grunted, "You are of _no_ help."

"Well, you're the one that came in, acting all tough as nails and hard as shit. Forgive me if I don't choose this moment to blanket you with compassion and love."

Jim glared at me again.

"You keep giving me that look, your face will get stuck like that." I said, smirking at him.

"You're insufferable," Jim muttered.

"Well, that seems to be a trait we both seem to share; I could probably trace it right back to our very first ancestors that walked this earth billions and billions of years ago," I said half-seriously.

Jim sat down on the stool, folding his hands together. Fidgeting again.

I placed my hands over his. His expression softened and I smiled gently at him.

"I do hope you find her," I said sincerely. "For what it's worth, I think she's hoping you do. You two may not be together anymore, but I can tell she still cares very deeply for you. Last I talked to her, anyway."

"You've spoken to her since?"

"Mm-hmm. Right before she cut ties with me," I uttered coolly. "Apparently, being friends with your ex's sister is damn near impossible anymore."

Jim allowed himself a small smile. When Oswald returned, looking more or less pleased with himself, he placed his phone on the counter with finality.

"Go to the pier," he instructed. "One of my informants will be waiting for you; they'll have what you need to get into the Foxglove."

"Thank you," Jim said briskly, turning on his heel.

"Good-bye, ass!" I called after him lovingly.

Jim held his hand up in acknowledgment before leaving the building. Butch rejoined us at the bar counter, and I smiled at the two of them.

"Always a delight," I said tiredly. "I can only imagine what it will be like when we all come together for the holidays."

Butch said incredulously, "You three will be together for the holidays?"

"Not if I don't kill my brother first," I grumbled, rubbing my face.

Butch and Oswald exchanged amused glances.

* * *

XxXxXx

Rick had shown up for work (finally) and took my shift, leaving _me_ free to spend the rest of my time with Oswald. I sat next to him on the stool, and I grinned broadly when he wrapped his arm around my waist—the public display of affection just made me giddy. Rick, a tall, blonde man who liked liquor almost as much as the rest of us (if not more), placed two glasses in front of us.

The metal band was rocking the stage, and it was a full house. Urgently moving through the crowd was Butch, who looked like he was about to pass a kidney stone.

"Conner blew it," Butch said earnestly. "Maroni's still alive. You gotta get out of town."

Oswald took a sip of his glass and spoke to Rick as though he hadn't heard a single word: "This is flat."

Rick took both glasses back to redo it, assuming mine was just as bad.

"Did you not hear me?" Butch exclaimed. "Maroni's still alive. You gotta get out of town!"

"And miss all the fun?" Oswald said mischievously.

Sudden realization crossed the gorilla's face.

"You _knew_?" Butch uttered, surprised. He looked at me. "Did _you_ know too?"

"I'm just as surprised as you are," I returned calmly.

"You set him up," Butch said incredulously.

Rick came by with fresh glasses. I thanked him kindly.

Oswald smirked, saying, "I took the firing pins out of the guns before you hid them. A spin on a trick I learned from Maroni."

"But you could have had Maroni dead," said Butch.

"True," Oswald agreed. "But I still would have been under Falcone's thumb and that has grown intolerable. No. I'd much rather Maroni be alive and out for blood."

Oswald lifted his glass in a toast. I leaned into him, nuzzling his neck.

"My criminal mastermind," I purred.


	20. The King of Gotham

Chapter Twenty: The King of Gotham

In a matter of two weeks, Gotham lit up like a firework on the Fourth of July.

When Maroni attacked Falcone's bars, Falcone retaliated and attacked Maroni's warehouses. Falcone would attack two of Maroni's men; the Italian Don, the hothead that he was, would double the damage and go after four of Falcone's lieutenants.

Every channel on Gotham's News exploded with reports of the power struggle between Carmine Falcone and Salvatore Maroni. There was a live video streaming from Gotham Five where five men on both sides of the families were just fighting, literally, in the streets. Guns, knives, brass knuckles—like a modern-day version of the _West Side Story._ Absolute anarchy.

I stood on the roof of my apartment complex, looking above all the other buildings. The black sky was clear, a blanket of stars shown overhead. Even from this height, I could hear the gunfire, and see the wisps of smoke rising from different parts of town.

It was a full out gang war.

The neutrals were hiding in their complexes, in their houses, in their basements. Forget the other Five Families. Forget the Narrows. Forget everyone else; if you were on Falcone's side, you were getting blown up by Maroni. If you were on Maroni's side, you'd find a bomb waiting under your car, ready to ignite the moment you revved up the engine.

I kept my cell phone on me, and I glanced at it a lot more frequently than I cared to admit. I had never felt more anxious and yet exhilarated than I did standing on the roof, waiting, anticipating. I didn't know what phone call I would receive; I was hoping to hear from Oswald soon.

Today, Don Falcone had been hit. One of Maroni's men had hit the car with a rocket launcher; he was rushed to the hospital. Oswald said he was tying up loose ends; I was smart enough to know that it meant he was going to finish off Falcone.

I volunteered to go, but both Butch and Oswald insisted I remain behind. 'Too dangerous', they said.

Perhaps I would consider doing what Oswald told me to do.

But the longer I waited, the more worried I became.

Falcone was unpredictable.

An hour passed, and I stared down at my phone.

 _I'm not going to wait here and hope for the best._ Not when I could do ensure it myself. But where would I start—

Did I even have to ask myself that anymore?

I left the roof, down the elevator, jumped into my car, and drove down the highway.

When I walked into the GCPD station, I had to stand for a few minutes with my jaw open. Police officers stormed through the building, gathering men by the handful, pushing them into cells. Maroni Loyalists tried clawing their way through the bars; Falcone Loyalists snarled in response, like wolves. I looked at the balcony, searching for Jim. I couldn't see him. But I did see someone else who could help me.

 _Harvey Bullock. The main man himself._

I headed up the stairs, two at a time. Breathlessly, I stopped in front of him. He was just getting off the phone, and the look on his face said I was already running a little too behind.

"What happened? Is Jim okay?" I panted, bending over slightly to catch my breath.

"You're out of shape, Kitten," Harvey said cynically.

"I blame my anxiety," I said straightening. "And you're one to talk."

"If you think you're coming with me—"

"My brother is out there, Harvey." I interrupted him harshly. "If you think I'm just going to stay behind like everyone else wants me to—"

"You didn't let me finish!" Harvey shouted over me.

I stared at him, taken aback.

"You didn't let me finish," Harvey said in a calmer but still firm tone. "If you think you're coming with me, you're _right_."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Yeah, I just finished talking to him," he said, getting up. He took his hat, and placed an extra magazine inside his pocket, lock and loading his gun.

"Where is he?"

"He's at the hospital, guarding Falcone."

"Maroni's men will be there to finish him off!" I snapped furiously. "Why the fuck is he there!"

Harvey grabbed my arm, pulling me with him, saying, "He's trying to get him to safety."

I followed Harvey out in a semi-jog (mainly because Harvey had trouble keeping up with a sprinter like myself). He tossed himself in the driver's seat; I jumped into the passenger side, closing the door. He revved the engine and bolted into the street.

"Everyone agreed that Falcone was out," I told Harvey unhappily. "I guess Jim has this convoluted idea that Falcone can bring back control."  
"He lost control a long time ago," Harvey interjected.

"No shit, Sherlock. Tell me something I don't know."

Harvey side-glanced me, rolling his eyes as he drove through a red light.

"You're less of a putz than your brother, that's for sure," Harvey muttered. He took a hard right.

"You're so sweet—no wonder you're already married."

"I'm not married."

"My point exactly," I responded sarcastically.

"How you and Jim grew up without killing each other, I will never know," said Harvey; he winced when his side-view mirror on my side broke off after skimming against another vehicle.

"I sure hope you have insurance," I snickered.

"It's against the law not to have car insurance," Harvey retorted.

"Oooh," I taunted, "Big Bad Harvey Bullock, following the 411 on rules. Such a bad-ass."

"I'm going to push you out of this car."

"I'll just drag you out with me," I remarked, smirking at him. "And you _know_ I will."

Harvey stomped on the brake just outside of the Emergency Room. Empty ambulances crowded the basement. We jogged through the hospital, following the sounds of crossfire.

"Stay back," Harvey warned.

"Don't have to tell me twice," I muttered, pushing my backside against the wall.

No doubt Maroni's men had tried to finish off Falcone while he had been vulnerable. Harvey took a leap forward and after exchange of gunfire, I didn't hear anything until—

"Jim! It's me, don't shoot!" Harvey shouted.

The gunfire stopped, so I came out of the wreckage. Jim held two pistols, one was his spare. Seeing Harvey, he looked relieved. When he saw who accompanied him, Jim suddenly became really, _really_ pissed.

"What the _hell_ is she doing here?" Jim shouted, pointing at me furiously.

"She wanted to come!" Harvey shouted back. "And I will _not_ be the dead man who tells this woman to chill!"

I smirked at Jim, saying, "Finally! Someone who listens to reason!"

"You can't be here, Sylvia," Jim growled.

"Too bad, I'm already here!" I retorted.

"Don't worry about her!" Harvey bellowed. "There are ambulances in the basement. Where's your man?"  
"About that," Jim panted. "We have to take Penguin and Butch Gilzean with us."

Harvey looked like he might have a stroke as he said, "Penguin _and_ Butch Gilzean?"

"I arrested them for attempted murder; they're in my custody—"

"Ah! I don't even wanna hear it right now—let's go!" Harvey retorted, waving his hand at him.

I followed Jim back to wherever Falcone was being harbored. I smacked him in the arm, hard.

"You arrested Oswald!" I snapped. "What kind of fucking asshole _are you_ , James Gordon!"

We burst into the room, door banging open. Falcone was sitting on the gurney, restraint-free. Oswald and Butch were handcuffed to a water heater. My mouth dropped open and I glared at Jim who ignored me as he quickly took the cuffs off both of my boys.

I slapped Jim in the arm again, "You! You're such an ass!"

"Stop hitting me!" Jim retorted.

"God! I can't even believe you right now—"

Falcone interrupted, "Perhaps we should put aside our quarrels for another day!"

"He's right, let's move!" Harvey ordered.

We all were moving down the hall as fast as we could, but in all consideration of the fact, it wasn't all that fast. Oswald had his own complication, and he could still run pretty fast; Falcone was hurting to walk.

"Through here," Harvey directed; after we turned the corner, we stood in the parking garage where a few ambulances were parked, unguarded.

"Get in the back," Jim ordered, pointing at the double doors of one empty ambulance.

Butch and I opened the doors. I helped Oswald in; Butch (reluctantly) aided Falcone, giving him a stepper upper into the ambulance. Harvey jumped in, after I did, closing the double doors.

Falcone watched me with hawk eyes. I didn't even need to ask the reason why.

'Birds of a feather, flock together'. As far as he was concerned, pigeons and penguins were just as guilty.

The ambulance ride was _not_ fun to say the least. It rocked, and rolled. Without seat belts, it proved to be a very memorable, hazardous bumpy ride. Some bullets penetrated the ambulance while others ricocheted.

Jim bellowed, "GET DOWN!"

And we hit the deck.

"I don't know about you all," I giggled, "but this is like the most fun I've had in my entire life!"

Butch stared at me like I had gone mad; Oswald couldn't comment; Falcone was still glaring at me, regardless of his opinion on the matter.

Under his breath, Harvey muttered, "Crazy broad."

"I heard that, Harvey," I said pointedly.

"I said it loud enough where you could hear me," Harvey retorted.

"No, you didn't. You didn't think I was listening. Now that you've been caught, you're trying to pretend you wanted me to hear it all along."

"God," Butch said irritably. "Have you ever tried _not_ speaking your mind?"

"Haven't thought about doing that before," I retorted. "I'm not about to start now."

Falcone chuckled, "Argumentative one, isn't she?"

Oswald muttered, "You have _no_ idea."

"I'm pretty sure I do," Harvey said sardonically. "I've heard it the entire way here."

"Fuck you, Harvey."

Harvey snickered, "Same to you, you wonderful crazy broad. See, _this_ time I said it loud enough for you to hear."

The truck suddenly stopped with a jolt; the doors swung open, and Jim looked at all of us. I hopped out; the ambulance itself was totally wrecked; the hood was smoking; the windows were shattered.

Harvey asked Falcone, "Are you sure no one knows about this place?"

Jim held tight onto Oswald as we strolled forward.

"I'm sure," said Falcone. "Nobody. Anybody else who knew about this place is dead."

And…just like that, a figure came a-strolling, wearing an incredible amount of leather, and a permed up-do. She reminded me of a black cat, the way she strolled towards us.

"Selina..." I muttered.

"Hellooo," she greeted smugly. "What's up?"

A door rose up with a metal clang. It was an astonishing—if not devastating image—of a very much alive Fish Mooney strutting towards us with a band of new followers. The difference between the last time I saw Fish and this time was that not only had her hair changed, so had her eyes. One, sky-blue eyeball had replaced the otherwise hazel-brown.

 _What the fuck…_

As if reading our thoughts, Fish drawled, "I know...I know...it's astonishing. Sometimes I astonish myself."

Perhaps it wasn't worth the effort of trying to run. Maybe it was because at some point, we knew this would happen. I knew for a fact that all of Fish's followers held guns and I was _not_ about to get blown to pieces because I wanted to chance a 20% success rate of a 500-yard sprint escape.

Harvey, Jim, Oswald, and Falcone were bound by the hands, their binds placed on hooks, like slabs of meat waiting to be shipped out to the deli. I was uncertain as to why they had left me alone—that was until Fish approached me. I looked at her, eyes wide. And I was ashamed to admit that I had never been so intimidated by another woman as I was at that moment.

"How have you been, little girl?" She breathed.

"I have to admit," I murmured. "I've had better days. How have you been?"

"Time has not helped that tongue of yours, has it?" Fish said coldly.

She grabbed my hair and pushed me down on my knees. My kneecaps hit the concrete, hard. I winced, but didn't make a sound; I was just trying to hold onto her hand, hoping she didn't pull any harder on my hair.

"Despite what you've done to me," Fish growled, "I will give you this one chance. You were like a daughter to me...once."

"Take it from me, Miss Mooney," I grimaced. "I wouldn't call you a part of my family, so I'd say you're wasting your breath on me."

Fish brought my head down, striking me in the face with her knee. I grunted, falling down on the concrete. Looking down, I could see rain water, and blood.

 _Fucking bitch broke my nose._

"You're right," Fish said, smirking. "It's clear I don't mean much to you."

I snickered, "You're very perceptive."

"For Christ's sake, Vee!" Jim shouted. "For once in your life, _stop talking_!"

I turned on my back, looking up at Fish. Seeing my smile, she growled deep in her throat. She tied my hair several times around her fist and dragged me to my feet; the feeling of my roots being torn out of my skull was a bit too much.

She forced me to turn; I looked at Falcone, Oswald, Jim, and Harvey, all watching me.

Jim and Oswald had never looked more helpless. They were restrained, but I was certain that if they ever had a moment of freedom, they would claw Fish Mooney's eyes out within a second. A young man approached Fish, holding out a phone.

"It's him, boss," he said.

She dragged me along, walking away to speak more privately on the phone with the said contender.

"Don Maroni," Fish answered smoothly. "Yes. Alive and well. Well, that's a long _story_ " (she emphasized by yanking my hair forward and I tripped over my feet) "We need to talk. I have something you want."

She hung up, smirking at me.

"My mark on you never stayed, did it?" Fish drawled; she traced my collar bone with a fingernail. Instead of the Fish symbol she had carved into my flesh so long ago, there was still the aftermath of Oswald's love bite instead. She gave me a look of 'seriously?' and I smirked at her.

"I told you, Miss Mooney," I said breathlessly. "I _never_ belonged to you."

"Your brother's right," Fish seethed. "You really should learn when to stop talking."

A car pulled up, and out came several of Maroni's men, led by the Don himself. Fish dragged me with her—again—It was like I was restrained by my own hair! If that wasn't humiliating, I didn't know what was.

"Get on your knees," Fish ordered.

I chuckled, "I didn't get on my knees for you before—I won't do it now."

Maroni approached her with open arms. I glanced at Oswald who was in between two strong emotions: Fear and Anger. It seemed to be his common go-to these days. Jim looked nonchalant, like he was seeing where this was heading. Harvey had long since bet let go; he just hung back to see what was going on. Falcone looked pretty damn peaceful for someone who was going to be taken off the roster any minute now.

"Fish," Maroni greeted. "You, mysterious, crazy, gorgeous killer, you. I love you."

He stood in front of Falcone, smirking, "This is delicious. You're hard to kill, old man."

"No, I'm not," Falcone said smugly. "Your people are second-rate."

Maroni gave him a look.

"Well, he's right." I muttered.

And _that_ was when I regretted speaking my mind.

Jim and Oswald let out quiet exasperated sighs as Maroni turned to me. It was like I had been invisible, up until now. Fish smirked.

"Hello, Sylvia." Maroni said smugly. "How've you been?"

"So-so," I answered, grinning broadly at him. _That's right, just make it worse on yourself._ "You?"

"I've never felt better," Maroni said charmingly.

"Good to hear. Sorry I missed Mack's funeral," I lamented sarcastically. "I was able to get to know him on a deeper, intimate level. I was able to see what kind of lout he really was before—you know—he died."

I glanced at Fish saying, "One of his men, Mack, came in with another one of his lackeys and tried to rape me. I bit his dick off, shot him in the balls, and he bled out like a stuck pig. Just let that slowly sink in—this is the man that you're going to be working alongside and—"

Maroni punched me straight in the face.

"That all you got?" I said, smirking. "You punch like your mother."

"You have a death wish, don't you?" Maroni said all too happily.

"Well, you know—"

Maroni punched me again, and _that_ one hurt.

"Vee, _shut up_!" Jim shouted.

Fish grabbed me by the neck, smiling at me.

"You're only going to make it worse for yourself, darling," Fish said softly.

I looked at Fish, and I could see it in her eyes that she wasn't kidding. Maroni spoke to Falcone, speaking in such low volumes that I couldn't ignore her.

"Miss Mooney," I said quietly. "If you let Oswald or Jim—either one go—I'll bow to you. I will kneel down, and do whatever you want."

My resolve broke when the fleeting thought came to mind—if Jim and Oswald both died tonight, I would be completely alone. Fish seemed to gather that, and the malicious smile that spread across her face scared the hell out of me!

"Butch," Fish said loudly.

Maroni turned curiously.

Butch came to her side.

"Take Miss Gordon out of here," said Fish gently. "She thinks she has a death wish, then maybe she will learn what it truly feels like to have the wish to die…" (She grinned widely at Jim and Oswald) "when she has no one left...much like I was when I was cast out of Gotham."

"No..." I whispered.

Butch grabbed my arm.

"No. Fish, you can't do that," I begged.

Damn my humiliation! Be damned my pride. I just wanted to make sure the two people left of my family were safe. What was the point of all the hell I had been through and back if this was how it was going to end!  
"Take her away, Butch!" Fish snapped.

"Fish, you can't do this! _**MY WHOLE FAMILY IS THERE**_! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

I screamed, and shrieked. I kicked, I struggled. Butch held fast to me and pulled me away. I could not break free of his grip, no matter the effort. He shoved me into a closet.

"I'm sorry, Sylvia," Butch said—and he sounded genuinely sorry.

"Butch! BUTCH! Get me out of here! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! YOU CAN'T! Let me out! PLEASE!"

It was a small closet. Nothing more than a janitor's cell for household cleaning items such as brooms and mop buckets. It could barely fit three people. The light switch didn't work. I jiggled the door knob—It didn't budge.

"LET ME OUT!" I screamed. "PLEASE! LET ME OUT!"

I banged on the door, kicked it—I damn near broke my toe! Soon my words became nothing more than shrieks of devastation and fury.

 _Look around, Sylvia. Is there anything you can use—_

There was nothing that could get me out of this closet. A mop, a broom, and a mop bucket. There wasn't even a single damn lockpick or a fucking bobby pin. The one time I get locked inside a closet had to be in one where the janitor had some obsessive need to keep everything squeaky clean and dust-free.

I rubbed my face, wiping away the tears. No matter how much I tried to force myself to stop crying, only more tears came out.

 _Fucking pussy—come on, you can get out._

I looked up. What if the ceiling had a venting system? Could I climb up there?

 _Even if I could, there was no way I was getting up to the ceiling. The mop bucket stood no more than half a foot, and I was short as it was._

"FUCK!" I shrieked, kicking the door again.

 _Well, back to screaming._

"Someone let me out of this fucking closet, _right—_ "

I heard someone shoot once. At first there was nothing. Nothing but silence. Just terrifying, ear-ringing silence. And then shots fired from each and every direction.

 _Well, at least I'm in this closet, safe and sound._

"Until the victor retrieves the spoils," I said darkly.

 _Damn, that joke was in bad taste—even for me._

And then more silence followed.

"LET ME OUT OF THIS CLOSET, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.

More silence followed. Holy shit, did they all kill each other?!

The sound of a machine gun went off like it was having a killing spree.

Then it stopped.

And then one single round was fired.

"FIIIIIISH!" I heard Oswald scream. "WHERE ARE YOU!"

"Oswald?" I breathed.

 _At least he's alive…_ What about Jim though?

"He's a survivor," I muttered. "They both are. They'll both get through this. Fuck the rest of them." I kicked at the door. "AND FUCK THIS DOOR, GOD DAMN IT!"

The door…

THE DOOR!

"Thank you, police officer James Gordon!" I said, smiling widely. I stood, reaching my hands in the vast darkness.

 _Find the door knob._

 _Where the hell is it. Fuck!_

 _Ah! There it is._

Jim was used to breaking down doors. His job demanded it, especially in Gotham. Back when he had just finished the police academy, he was showing off to his buddies how to kick down a door. I had only seen it done twice. That was some years ago.

Did one break above or below the lock? Did it really it matter?

"We'll find out, I guess," I sighed.

 _Here we go…here we go...okay...and KICK!  
"_GOD DAMN IT, my fucking foot! Holy shit, that fucking HURTS!" I growled, rubbing my ankle. "What the hell is this thing made of! Solid gold! Fucking fuckery!"

 _Try again._

And…. _KICK!_

The door bust open, the lock was still set in place, but the door had nearly come off its hinges. It was only when I came out of the room that I realized just how hot and cramped it was in that small-ass closet.

After hearing the gunshots, I shouldn't have been so shocked to see all the bodies lying on the ground, including the dead body of Don Maroni. I looked over the dead, making sure none of them looked like my brother. It didn't appear that Jim, Harvey, or Falcone had been hit in the cross fire.

 _Where's Oswald?_

 _Where's Fish_?

I looked around, searching for possible routes. I saw the fire escape; stairs led up to the roof.

 _I do love a roof_ , I thought. _Bingo._

I ran up the stairs, climbing them two at a time, breathless.

And just in time to see Oswald and Fish Mooney in a power struggle. Butch held a gun, aiming at either Fish or Oswald; he seemed to switch between the two—his love for Fish begged him to shoot Oswald but Victor Zsasz' training ordered him to take down Fish.

With both parties shouting at him to drop both of them, Butch first shot Mooney then he shot Oswald.

While Butch was immediately regretting hurting Fish and they were talking about it, Oswald slowly rose to his feet and hit Butch over the head with a plank of wood. After knocking him out temporarily, Oswald grinned at Fish with only one thought on his mind. And she seemed to figure it out quick.

"It's all good," she said, smiling wearily.

"Good-bye, _Fish!"_ Oswald ran towards her, lifted her up, tossed her over the fucking roof ("No!" Butch shouted); her scream echoed even as I heard the splash.

"I'm the King of Gotham," Oswald said, smiling to himself. Then he stood on the ledge, and screamed for all of the city to hear: "I'M THE KING OF GOTHAM!"


End file.
